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OF 

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OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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By  FLORENCE  L.  BARCLAY 


The  Rosary 

The  Mistress  of  Shenstone 

The  Following  of  the  Star 


THE    LADY    OF    MYSTERY 


Drawn  by  F.  H.  Townsend 


(See  page  25) 


The 
Following  of  the  Star 

A  Romance 


By 

Florence  L.  Barclay 

Author  ©f  "  The  Rosarv,"  "  The  Mistress  of  Shcnstonc,"  etc. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 
New  York  and  London 
Zbc  Vnic^cxbochc:  prcee 


Copyright,  1911 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


TCbc  ftnicherboclier  prese,  flew  I^)clt 


p/? 


Co 

MY    SON 

TN    THF.    MINISTRY 

C.    C.    B. 


l»>i»\iTj.\.i 


CONTENTS 
GOLD 

CHAITSR  PAG» 

I.    The   Still   Waters   of    Bram- 

BLEDENE            ....  3 

II.     The  Lady  of  Mystery                .  20 

III.  David  Stirs  the  Still  \V.\ters.  31 

IV.  Diana  Rivers,  of  Riverscourt.  46 

V.     The  Noiseless  Napier  58 

VI.     David     Makes    Friends    with 

"Chaitih"                                   .  f'Q 

VII.     The  Touch  of  Power  81 

VIII.     TnK  Test  of  the  True  Herald  91 

IX.     Uncle  P.vlcon's  Will  95 

X.     Diana's  High  Fence  129 

XI.     The  Voice  in  the  Night   .  145 

XII.     Suspense  .164 

XIII.  David's  Decision  I74 

XIV.  The  Kve  of  Epiphany  if)o 
XV.     The  Codicil                                 .198 

XVI      In  Old  Saint  noTOLPH's    .  211 


vi  Contents 


CHAPTER 


PACE 


XVII.  Diana's  Readjustment     .         .     222 

XVIII.  David's  Nunc  Dimittis     .         .     229 

XIX.  David  Studies  the  Scenery      .     239 

XX.  With  the  Compliments  of  the 

Company       ....     252 

XXI.  **  All  Ashore!"        .         .         .260 

XXII.  Diana  Wins      ....     266 

XXIII.  Uncle  Falcon  Wins.         .  275 

FRANKINCENSE 

XXIV.  The  Hidden  Leaven 
XXV.  The  Property  of  the  Crown 

XXVI.  A  Pilgrimage   . 

XXVII.  A  Question  of  Conscience 

XXVIII.  David's  Pronouncement  . 

XXIX.  What  David  Wondered    . 

XXX.  Resurgam 

XXXI.  "  I  Can  Stand  Alone  " 

XXXII.  The  Blow  Falls 

XXXIII.  Requiescat  in  Pace 

MYRRH 


289 
296 
309 
327 
342 
348 
356 
367 
371 
376 


XXXIV.     In  the  Hospital  of  the  Holy 

Star 385 


Contents 


Vll 


CHArTER 

XXXV.  The  Letter  Comes   . 

XXXVI.  Diana  Learns  the  Truth 

XXXVn.  "Good-night,  David" 

XXXVIII.  The  Bundle  of  Myrrh 

XXXIX.  Home,  by  Another  Way  . 


398 
404 

413 
420 

4^4 


GOLD 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  STILL  WATERS  OF  BRAMBLEDENE 

pvAVID  RIVERS  closed  his  Bible  suddenly, 
^"^^  slipped  it  into  the  inner  pocket  of  his  coat, 
and,  leaning  back  in  his  armchair,  relaxed  the 
tension  at  which  he  had  been  sitting  while  he 
mentally  put  his  thoughts  into  terse  and  forcible 
phraseology. 

His  evening  sermon  was  ready.  The  final 
sentence  had  silently  thrilled  into  the  quiet  study, 
in  the  very  words  in  which  it  would  presently 
resound  through  the  half -empty  little  village 
church;  and  David  felt  as  did  the  young  Dav^id 
of  old,  when  he  had  paused  at  the  brook  and 
chosen  five  smooth  stones  for  his  sling,  on  his  way 
to  meet  the  mighty  champion  of  the  Philistines. 
David  now  felt  ready  to  go  forward  and  fight  the 
Goliath  of  apathy  and  inattention;  the  life-long 
habit  of  not  listening  to  the  voice  of  the  preacher, 
or  giving  any  heed  to  the  message  he  brought. 

The    congregation,    in     this    little    Hampshire 


4  The  Following  of  the  Star 

village  church  where,  during  the  last  five  weeks, 
David  had  acted  as  locum-tenens,  consisted  en- 
tirely of  well-to-do  farmers  and  their  families;  of 
labourers,  who  lounged  into  church  from  force  of 
habit,  or  because,  since  the  public-houses  had 
been  closed  by  law  during  the  hours  of  divine 
service,  it  was  the  only  warmed  and  lighted  place 
to  be  found  on  a  Sunday  evening;  of  a  few  devout 
old  men  and  women,  to  whom  weekly  church- 
going,  while  on  earth,  appeared  the  only  possible 
preparation  for  an  eternity  of  Sabbaths  in  the 
world  to  come;  and  of  a  fair  sprinkling  of  village 
lads  and  lassies,  who  took  more  interest  in  them- 
selves and  in  each  other  than  in  the  divine  wor- 
ship in  which  they  were  supposed  to  be  taking 
part. 

The  two  churchwardens,  stout,  florid,  and  well- 
to-do,  occupied  front  pews  on  either  side  of  the 
centre;  Mr.  Churchwarden  Jones,  on  the  right; 
Mr.  Churchwarden  Smith,  on  the  left.  Their 
official  position  lent  them  a  dignity  which  they 
enjoyed  to  the  full,  and  which  overflowed  to  Mrs. 
Jones  and  Mrs.  Smith,  seated  in  state  beside 
them.  When,  on  "collection  Sundays,"  the 
churchwardens  advanced  up  the  chancel  together 
during  the  final  verse  of  the  hymn,  and  handed  the 
plates  to  the  Rector,  their  wives  experienced  a 


The  Still  Waters  of  Bramblcdenc      5 

sensation  of  pride  in  them  which  "custom  could 
not  stale."  They  were  wont  to  describe  at  the 
Sunday  midday  dinner  or  at  supper,  afterwards, 
the  exact  effect  of  this  "procession"  up  the  church, 
an  oft-told  tale  for  which  they  could  always  be 
sure  of  at  least  one  interested  auditor. 

Mr.  Churchwarden  Jones  bowed  when  he 
delivered  the  plate  to  the  Rector.  Mr.  Church- 
warden Smith  did  not  bow,  but  kept  himself  more 
erect  than  usual;  holding  that  anything  in  the 
nature  of  a  bow,  while  in  the  House  of  God, 
savoured  of  popery. 

This  provided  the  village  with  a  fruitful  subject 
for  endless  discussion.  The  congregation  was 
pretty  equally  divided.  One  half  approved  the 
stately  bow  of  Mr.  Churchwarden  Jones,  and 
unconsciously  bowed  themselves,  while  they  dis- 
regarded their  hymn-books  and  watched  him  make 
it.  The  other  half  were  for  "Smith,  and  no 
popery,"  and  also  sang  of  "mystic  sweet  com- 
munion, with  those  whose  rest  is  won,"  without 
giving  any  thought  to  the  words,  while  occupied 
in  gazing  with  approval  at  Farmer  Smith's  broad 
back,  and  at  the  uncompromising  stiffness  of  the 
red  neck,  apfx^aring  above  his  starched  Sunday 
collar. 

Mrs.  Smith  secretly  admired  Mr.  Jones's  bow, 


6  The  Following  of  the  Star 

and  felt  that  her  man  was  missing  his  chances 
for  a  silly  idea;  but  not  for  worlds  would  Mrs. 
Smith  have  admitted  this;  no,  not  even  to  her 
especial  crony,  Miss  Pike  the  milliner,  who  had 
once  been  to  Paris,  and  knew  what  was  what. 

The  venerated  Rector,  father  of  his  people, 
always  bowed  as  he  received  the  plates  from  the 
two  churchwardens.  But  then,  that  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  question,  his  back  being 
to  the  Table.  Besides,  the  Rector,  who  had 
christened,  confirmed,  married,  and  biiried  them, 
during  the  last  fifty  years,  could  do  no  wrong. 
They  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  trying  to 
understand  his  sermons,  as  of  questioning  his 
soundness.  "The  Rector  says,"  constituted  a 
final  judgment,  from  which  there  was  no  appeal. 

As  he  slowly  and  carefully  moimted  the  pulpit 
stairs,  one  hand  grasping  the  rail,  the  other  clasp- 
ing a  black  silk  sermon-case,  the  hearts  of  his 
people  went  with  him. 

The  hearts  of  his  people  were  with  him,  as  his 
silvery  hair  and  benign  face  appeared  above  the 
large  red  velvet  cushion  on  the  pulpit  desk;  and 
the  minds  of  his  people  were  with  him,  tmtil  he 
had  safely  laid  his  sermon  upon  the  cushion, 
opened  it,  and  gently  flattened  the  manuscript 
with  both  hands;   then   placed   his  pocket-hand- 


The  Still  Waters  of  Brambledene      7 

kerchief  in  the  handy  receptacle  specially  intended 
to  contain  it,  and  a  lozenge  in  a  prominent  posi- 
tion on  the  desk.  But,  this  well-known  routine 
safely  accomplished,  they  sang  a  loud  amen  to 
the  closing  verse  of  "the  hymn  before  the  sermon, " 
and  gave  their  minds  a  holiday,  until,  at  the  first 
words  of  the  ascription,  they  rose  automatically 
with  a  loud  and  joyous  clatter  to  their  feet,  to 
emerge  in  a  few  moments  into  the  fresh  air  and 
sunshine. 

A  perplexing  contretemps  had  once  occurred. 
The  Rector's  gentle  voice  had  paused  in  its  onward 
flow.  It  was  not  the  usual  lozenge-pause.  Their 
subconscious  minds  understood  and  expected  that. 
But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Rector  had,  on  this 
particular  Sunday,  required  a  second  lozenge 
towards  the  end  of  the  sermon,  and  the  sentence 
immediately  following  this  unexpected  pause 
chanced  to  begin  with  the  words:  "And  now  to 
enlarge  further  upon  our  seventh  point."  At  the 
first  three  words  the  whole  congregation  rose 
joyfully  to  their  feet ;  then  had  to  sit  down  abashed, 
while  the  Rector  hurriedly  enlarged  upon  "our 
seventh  ix^int."  It  was  the  only  point  which  had 
as  yet  penetrated  their  intelligence. 

In  all  subsequent  sermons,  the  Rector  carefully 
avoided,  at  the  beginning  of  his  sentences,  the 


8  The  Following  of  the  Star 

words  which  had  produced  a  general  rising.  He 
would  smile  benignly  to  himself,  in  the  seclusion 
of  his  study,  as  he  substituted,  for  fear  of  accidents, 
"Let  us,  my  brethren,"  or  "Therefore,  beloved." 

It  never  struck  the  good  man,  content  with  his 
own  scholarly  presentment  of  deep  theological 
truths,  that  the  accidental  rising  was  an  undoubted 
evidence  of  non-attention  on  the  part  of  his 
congregation.  He  continued  to  mount  the  pulpit 
steps,  as  he  had  mounted  them  during  the  last 
fifty  years;  attaining  thereby  an  elevation  from 
which  he  invariably  preached  completely  over  the 
heads  of  his  people. 

In  this  they  acquiesced  without  question.  It 
was  their  obvious  duty  to  "sit  under"  a  preacher, 
not  to  attempt  to  fathom  his  meaning;  to  sit 
through  a  sermon,  not  to  endeavour  to  understand 
it.  So  they  slumbered,  fidgeted,  or  thought  of 
other  things,  according  to  their  age  or  inclina- 
tion, until  the  ascription  brought  them  to  their 
feet,  the  benediction  bowed  them  to  their  knees, 
and  the  first  strident  blasts  of  the  organ  sent  them 
gaily  trooping  out  of  church  and  home  to  their 
Sunday  dinners,  virtuous  and  content. 

Into  this  atmosphere  of  pious  apathy,  strode 
David  Rivers;  back  on  sick-leave  from  the  wilds 
of  Central  Africa;  aflame  with  zeal  for  his  Lord, 


The  Still  Waters  of  Brambledene      9 

certain  of  the  inspiration  of  his  message;  accus- 
tomed to  congregations  to  whom  ever}-  thought 
was  news,  and  every  word  was  life ;  men,  ready  and 
eager  to  listen  and  to  beUeve,  and  willing,  when 
once  they  had  believed,  to  be  buried  alive,  or 
tied  to  a  stake,  and  burned  by  slow  fire,  sooner 
than  rehnquish  or  deny  the  faith  he  had  taught 
them. 

But  how  came  this  young  prophet  of  fire  into 
the  still  waters  of  our  Hampshire  village?  The 
wilds  of  the  desert,  and  the  rapid  rushings  of 
Jordan,  are  the  only  suitable  setting  for  John  the 
Baptists  in  all  ages. 

Nevertheless  to  Hampshire  he  came;  and  it 
happened  thus. 

Influenza,  which  is  no  respecter  of  persons, 
attacked  the  venerated  Rector. 

In  the  first  stress  of  need,  neighbouring  clergy 
came  to  the  rescue.  But  when  six  weeks  of  rest 
and  change  were  ordered,  as  the  only  means  of 
insuring  complete  recovery,  the  Rector  advertised 
for  a  locum-tenens,  offering  terms  which  attracted 
David,  ju.st  out  of  hospital,  sailing  for  Central 
Africa  early  in  the  New  Year,  and  wondering  how 
on  earth  he  sliould  scrape  together  the  funds 
needed  for  completing  his  outfit.  He  api)lied 
immediately;    and,     within     twenty-four    hours, 


10  The  Following  of  the  Star 

received  a  telegram  suggesting  an  interview,  and 
asking  him  to  spend  the  night  at  Brambledene 
Rectory. 

Here  a  curious  friendship  began,  and  was 
speedily  cemented  by  mutual  attraction.  The 
white-haired  old  man,  overflowing  with  geniality, 
punctilious  in  old-fashioned  courtesy,  reminded 
David  Rivers  of  a  father,  long  dead  and  deeply 
mourned;  while  the  young  enthusiast,  with  white, 
worn  face,  and  deep-set  shining  eyes,  struck  a 
long-silent  chord  in  the  heart  of  the  easy-going 
old  Rector,  seeming  to  him  an  embodiment  of 
that  which  he  himself  might  have  been,  had  he 
chosen  a  harder,  rougher  path,  when  standing  at 
the  cross-roads  half  a  century  before. 

An  ideal  of  his  youth,  long  vanished,  returned, 
and  stood  before  him  in  David  Rivers.  It  was 
too  late,  now,  to  sigh  after  a  departed  ideal. 
But,  as  a  tribute  to  its  memory,  he  doubled  the 
remuneration  he  had  offered,  left  the  keys  in  every 
bookcase  in  the  library,  and  recommended  David 
to  the  most  especial  care  of  his  faithful  house- 
keeper, Sarah  Dolman,  with  instructions  that, 
shoiild  the  young  man  seem  tired  on  Sunday 
evenings,  after  the  full  day's  work,  the  best  old 
sherry  might  be  produced  and  offered. 

And  here  let  it  be  recorded,  that  David  un- 


The  Still  Waters  of  Brambledene     ii 

doubtedly  did  look  worn  and  tired  after  the  full 
day's  work;  but  the  best  old  sherry  was  declined 
with  thanks.  The  fact  that  your  heart  has 
remained  among  the  wild  tribes  of  Central  Africa 
has  a  way  of  making  your  body  very  abstemious, 
and  careless  of  all  ordinary  creature  comforts. 
Nevertheless,  David  enjoyed  the  Rector's  large 
armchair,  upholstered  in  maroon  leather,  and 
delighted  in  the  oak-panelled  study,  with  its 
wealth  of  valuable  books  and  its  atmosphere  of 
scholarly  calm  and  meditation. 

This  last  Sunday  of  his  ministry  at  Brambledene 
chanced  to  fall  on  Christmas-eve.  Also,  for  once, 
it  was  true  Christmas  weather. 

As  David  walked  to  church  that  morning,  every 
branch  and  twig,  cver>'  i\y  leaf  and  holly  berry, 
sparkled  in  the  sunshine;  the  frosty  lanes  were 
white  and  hard,  and  paved  with  countless  glit- 
tering diamonds.  An  indescribable  exhilaration 
was  in  the  air.  Limbs  felt  light  and  supple; 
movement  was  a  pleasure.  Church  bells,  near 
and  far  away,  pealed  joyously.  The  Christmas 
spirit  was  already  here. 

"Unto  us  a  Child  is  bom,  unto  us  a  Son  is 
given,"  quoted  David,  as  he  swung  along  the  lanes. 
It  was  five  years  since  he  had  had  a  Christmas  in 


12  The  Following  of  the  Star 

England.  Mentally  he  contrasted  this  keen  frosty 
■brightness,  with  the  mosquito-haunted  swamps 
of  the  African  jungle.  This  unaccustomed  sense 
of  health  and  vigour  brought,  by  force  of  con- 
trast, a  remembrance  of  the  deathly  lassitude  and 
weakness  which  accompany  the  malarial  fever. 
But,  instantly  true  to  the  certainty  of  his  high 
and  holy  calling,  his  soul  leapt  up  crying :  ' '  Unto 
them  a  Child  is  bom!  Unto  them  a  Son  is  given! 
And  how  shall  they  believe  in  Him  of  whom  they 
have  not  heard?  And  how  shall  they  hear  with- 
out a  preacher?" 

The  little  church,  on  that  morning,  was  bright 
with  holly  and  heavy  with  evergreens.  The 
united  efforts  of  the  Smith  and  the  Jones  families 
had,  during  the  week,  made  hundreds  of  yards  of 
wreathing.  On  Saturday,  all  available  young 
men  came  to  help;  Miss  Pike,  whose  taste  was  so 
excellent,  to  advise;  the  school-mistress,  a  noisy 
person  with  more  energy  than  tact,  to  argue  with 
Miss  Pike,  and  to  side  with  Smiths  and  Joneses 
alternately,  when  any  controversial  point  was 
under  discussion. 

So  a  gay  party  carried  the  long  evergreen 
wreaths  from  the  parish-room  to  the  church, 
where  already  were  collected  baskets  of  holly  and 


The  Still  Waters  of  Brambledene    13 

i\y,  yards  of  scarlet  flannel  and  white  cotton- 
wool; an  abundance  of  tin  tacks  and  hammers; 
and  last,  but  not  least,  the  Christmas  scrolls  and 
banners,  which  were  annually  produced  from  their 
place  of  dusty  concealment  behind  the  organ; 
and  of  which  Mrs.  Smith  remarked,  each  year, 
that  they  were  "every  bit  as  good  as  nev-,  if  you 
put  'em  up  in  a  fresh  place. " 

During  the  whole  of  Saturday  afternoon  and 
evening  the  decorative  process  had  been  carried 
on  with  so  much  energy,  that  when  David  came 
out  from  the  vestry,  on  Sunday  morning,  he  found 
himself  in  a  scene  which  was  decidedly  what  the 
old  women  from  the  alms-houses  called  "Christ- 
massy." 

His  surplice  rasped  against  the  holly-leaves,  as 
he  made  his  way  into  the  reading-desk.  The 
homely  face  of  the  old  gilt  clock,  on  the  gallery 
facing  him,  was  wTcathed  in  yew  and  holly,  and 
the  wreath  had  slipped  slightly  on  one  side. 
giving  the  sober  old  clock  an  unwontedly  rakish 
appearance,  which  belied  its  steady  and  measured 
"tick-tick. "  Also  into  the  bottom  of  this  wreath, 
Ixjneath  which  the  whole  congregation  had  to 
pass  in  and  out,  Tom  Brigg,  the  doctor's  son,  a 
handsome  fellow  and  noted  wag.  had  surrepti- 
tiously inserted  a  piece  of  mistletoe.     This  i)rank 


14         The  Following  of  the  Star 

of  Tom's,  known  to  all  the  younger  members  of 
the  congregation,  caused  so  much  nudging  and 
whispering  and  amused  glancing  at  the  inebrious- 
looking  clock,  that  David  produced  his  own 
watch,  wondering  if  there  were  any  mistake  in 
the  hour. 

His  sermon,  on  this  Sunday  morning,  had  seemed 
to  him  a  failure. 

His  text  confronted  him  in  letters  of  gold  on 
crimson  flock:  "Emmanuel — God  with  us"; 
but  not  a  mind  seemed  with  him  as  he  gave  it 
out,  read  it  twice,  slowly  and  clearly,  and  then 
proceeded  to  explain  that  this  wonderful  name, 
Emmanuel,  was  never  intended  to  be  the  world's 
name  for  Christ,  nor  even  His  people's  name  for 
Him.  However,  at  this  statement,  Mrs.  Smith 
raised  her  eyebrows  and  began  turning  over  the 
leaves  of  her  Bible. 

Encouraged  by  this  unusual  sign  of  attention, 
David  Rivers  leaned  over  the  pulpit  and  tried  to 
drive  into  one  mind,  at  least,  a  thought  which  had 
been  a  discovery  to  himself  the  evening  before, 
and  was  beginning  to  mean  much  to  him,  as  every 
Spirit-given  new  light  on  a  well-known  theme 
always  must  mean  to  the  earnest  Bible  student. 

"The  name  Emmanuel,"  he  said,  "so  freely 
used  in  our  church   decorations  at   this  season, 


The  Still  Waters  of  Brambledene    15 

occurs  three  times  only  in  the  Bible ;  twice  in  the 
Old  Testament,  once  in  the  New;  and  the  New 
merely  quotes  the  more  important  of  the  two 
passages  in  the  Old. 

"We  can  dismiss  at  once  the  allusion  in  Isaiah 
viii.,  8,  which  merely  speaks  of  Palestine  as  'Thy 
land,  O  Immanuel, '  and  confine  our  attention  to 
the  great  prophecy  of  Isaiah  vii.,  14,  quoted  in 
Matthew  i.,  23:  'Behold  a  Virgin  shall  bear  a 
son,  and  shall  call  His  name  Immanuel.'  The 
Hebrew  of  this  passage  reads:  'Thou,  O  Virgin, 
shalt  call  His  name  Immanuel';  and  the  Greek 
of  Matthew  i.  bears  the  same  meaning.  I  want 
you  to  realise  that  this  was  His  mother's  name 
for  the  new-bom  King,  for  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem, 
for  the  little  son  in  the  village  home  at  Nazareth. 
His  Presence  there  meant  to  that  humble  pon- 
dering heart:     'God  with  us.' 

"If  you  want  to  find  our  name  for  Him,"  con- 
tinued David,  noting  that  Mrs.  Smith,  ignoring  his 
two  references,  still  turned  the  pages  of  her  Bible, 
"look  at  the  angel's  message  to  Joseph  in  the 
2 1  St  verse  of  Matthew  i.:  'Thou  shalt  call  His 
name  Jesus,  for  He  shall  save  His  people  from  their 
sins.'  That  name  is  mentioned  nine  hundred  and 
six  times  in  the  Bible.  Wo  cannot  attempt  to 
look  them  all  out  now, " — with  an  apjx'aling  glance 


i6  The  Following  of  the  Star 

at  Mrs.  Smith's  rustling  pages — "but  let  us  make 
sure  that  we  have  appropriated  to  the  full  the 
gifts  and  blessings  of  that  name,  'which  is  above 
every  name. '  It  was  the  watchword  of  the  early- 
church.  It  is  the  secret  of  our  peace  and  power. 
It  will  be  our  password  into  heaven. 

"But  Emmanuel  was  His  mother's  name  for 
Him.  As  she  laid  him  in  the  manger,  round 
which  the  patient  cattle  snuifed  in  silent  wonder 
at  this  new  use  for  the  place  where  heretofore  they 
munched  their  fodder,  it  was  'God  with  us'  in 
the  stable. 

"As,  seated  on  the  ass,  she  clasped  the  infant 
to  her  breast  through  the  long  hours  of  that 
night  ride  into  Egypt,  she  whispered :  '  Emmanuel, 
Emmanuel!     God  with  us,  in  our  flight  and  peril. ' 

"  In  the  carpenter's  home  at  Nazareth,  where,  in 
the  midst  of  the  many  trials  and  vexations  of  a 
village  life  of  poverty.  He  was  ever  patient,  gentle, 
understanding;  subject  to  His  parents,  yet  giving 
His  mother  much  cause  for  pondering,  many  things 
to  treasure  in  her  heart — often,  in  adoring  tender- 
ness, she  would  whisper :  'Emmanuel,  God  with 
us:  " 

David  paused  and  looked  earnestly  down  the 
church,  longing  for  some  response  to  the  thrill  in 
his  own  soul. 


The  Still  Waters  of  Brambledcne    17 

"Ah,"  he  said,  slowly  and  impressively,  "if 
only  the  boys  in  your  village  could  be  this  to  their 
mothers!  If  their  loyal  obedience,  their  gentle, 
loving  chivalr>',  their  thoughtful  tenderness,  could 
make  it  possible  for  their  own  mothers  to  say: 
'  I  see  the  Christ-Hfe  in  my  little  boy.  WTien  he  is 
at  home,  the  love  of  God  is  here.  Truly  it  is 
Emmanuel,  God  with  us.' 

"What  did  that  young  man  mean,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Smith  at  the  dinner- table  at  Appledore 
Farm,  "by  trying  to  take  from  us  the  name 
'Emmanuel'?  Seems  to  me,  if  he  stays  here 
much  longer  we  shall  have  no  Bible  left!" 

Mr.  Churchwarden  Smith  had  been  carving  the 
Sunday  beef  for  his  numerous  family.  lie  had 
only,  that  moment,  fallen  to,  upon  his  own  portion. 
Otherwise  Mrs.  Smith  would  not  have  been  allowed 
to  complete  her  sentence. 

"I've  no  patience  with  these  young  chaps!" 
he  burst  out,  as  soon  as  speech  was  possible. 
"Undermining  the  failh  of  their  forefathers; 
putting  our  good  old  English  Bible  into  'Ehrew 
and  Greek,  just  to  parade  their  own  learning,  and 
confuse  the  minds  of  simple  folk.  'Higher  criti- 
cism,' they  call  it!  Jolly  low-down  impudence, 
say  I!" 


1 8  The  Following  of  the  Star 

Mrs.  Smith  watchfully  bided  her  time.  Then: 
"And  popish  too,"  she 'added,  "to  talk  so  much 
about  the  mother  of  our  Lord." 

"I  don't  think  he  mentioned  her,  my  dear," 
said  Mr.  Churchwarden  Smith.  "Pass  the  mus- 
tard, Johnny." 

Yes,  as  he  thought  it  over  during  his  lonely 
Ivmcheon,  David  felt  more  and  more  convinced 
that  his  morning  sermon  had  been  a  failiire. 

He  did  not  know  gf  a  little  curly-headed  boy, 
whose  young  widowed  mother  was  at  her  wit's 
end  as  to  how  to  control  his  wilfulness;  but  who 
ran  straight  to  his  garret-room  after  service,  and, 
kneeling  beside  his  frosty  window,  looked  up  to 
the  wintry  sky  and  said:  "Please  God,  make  me 
a  Manuel  to  my  mother,  like  Jesus  was  to  His, 
for  Christ's  sake,  Amen." 

David  did  not  know  of  this;  nor  that,  ever  after, 
that  cottage  home  was  to  be  transformed,  owing 
to  the  living  power  of  his  message. 

So,  down  in  the  depths  of  discouragement,  he 
dubbed  his  morning  sermon  a  failure. 

Notwithstanding,  he  prepared  the  evening 
subject  with  equal  care,  a  spice  of  enjoyment 
added,  owing  to  the  fact  that  he  would  possibly — 
probably — almost   to   a   certainty — have   in   the 


The  Still  Waters  of  Brambledene    1 9 

evening  congregation  a  mind  able  to  understand 
and  appreciate  each  point;  a  mind  of  a  calibre 
equal  to  his  own;  a  soul  he  was  bent  on  winning. 
As  he  closed  his  Bible,  put  it  into  his  pocket, 
and  relaxed  over  the  thought  that  his  sermon 
was  complete,  he  smiled  into  the  glowing  wood 
fire,  saying  to  himself,  in  glad  anticipation: 
"My  Lady  of  Mystcr>'  will  undoubtedly  be  there. 
Now  I  wonder  if  she  believes  that  there  were 
three  Wise  Men!" 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  LADY  OF  MYSTERY 


r*\AVID  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  the  pockets 
•■— ^  of  his  short  coat,  well  cut,  but  inclined 
to  be  somewhat  threadbare.  He  crossed  his 
knees,  and  lay  back  comfortably  in  the  Rector's 
big  chair.  An  hour  and  a  half  remained  before 
he  need  start  out. 

It  was  inexpressibly  restful  to  have  his  sub- 
ject, clear  cut  and  complete,  safely  stowed  away 
in  the  back  of  his  mind,  and  to  be  able  to  sit 
quietly  in  this  warmth  and  comfort,  and  let  his 
thoughts  dwell  lightly  upon  other  things,  while 
Christmas  snow  fell  softly,  in  large  flakes,  with- 
out; and  gathering  twilight  slowly  hushed  the 
day  to  rest. 

"Yes,  undoubtedly  my  Lady  of  Mystery  will 
be  there,"  thought  David  Rivers,  "unless  this 
fall  of  snow  keeps  her  away." 


The  Lady  of  Mystery  21 

He  let  his  memory-  dwell  in  detail  upon  the 
first  time  he  had  seen  her. 

It  happened  on  his  second  Sunday  at  Bram- 
bledene. 

The  deadening  effect  of  the  mental  apathy  of  the 
congregation  had  already  somewhat  damped  his 
enthusiasm. 

It  was  so  many  years  since  he  had  preached 
in  English,  that,  on  the  first  Sunday,  he  had 
allowed  himself  the  luxury  of  writing  out  his 
whole  sermon.  This  plan,  for  various  reasons, 
did  not  prove  successful. 

Mrs.  Churchwarden  Jones  and  Mrs.  Church- 
warden Smith — good  simple  souls  both,  if  you 
found  them  in  their  dairies  making  butter,  or 
superintending  the  sturdy  maids  in  the  farm 
kitchens — seemed  to  consider  on  Sundays  that 
they  magnified  their  husbands'  office  by  the 
amount  of  rustle  and  jingle  they  contrived  to 
make  with  their  o^^^l  portly  persons  during  the 
church  services.  They  kept  it  up,  duet  fashion, 
on  cither  side  of  the  aisle.  If  Mrs.  Jones  rustled, 
Mrs.  Smith  promptly  tinkled.  If  Mrs.  Smith 
ru.stlcd,  Mrs.  Jones  straightway  jingled.  The 
first  time  this  hajJiK-ned  in  the  sermon,  David 
looked  round,  hesitated,  lost  his  jjlace,  and  suffered 
agonies  of  mortification  before  In-  fotiiid  it  arain. 


22         The  Following  of  the  Star 

Moreover  he  soon  realised  that,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  manuscript,  he  had  absolutely  no  chance 
of  holding  the  attention  of  his  audience. 

In  the  evening  he  tried  notes,  but  this  seemed 
to  him  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other.  So  on  all 
subsequent  Sundays  he  memorised  his  sermons 
as  he  prepared  them,  and  hardly  realised  himself 
how  constantly,  in  their  delivery,  there  flowed 
from  his  subconsciousness  a  depth  of  thought, 
clothed  in  eloquent  and  appropriate  language, 
which  had  not  as  yet  been  ground  in  the  mill  of 
his  conscious  mind. 

On  that  second  Sunday  evening,  David  had 
entered  the  reading-desk  depressed  and  dis- 
couraged. In  the  morning  he  had  fallen  out 
with  the  choir.  It  was  a  mixed  choir.  Large 
numbers  of  young  Smiths  and  Joneses  sat  on 
either  side  of  the  chancel  and  vied  with  one  an- 
other as  to  which  family  could  outsing  the  other. 
This  rivalry  was  resulting  in  a  specially  loud 
and  joyful  noise  in  the  closing  verses  of  the  Bene- 
dictus, 

David,  jarred  in  every  nerve,  and  forgetting 
for  the  moment  that  he  was  not  dealing  with 
his  African  aborigines,  wheeled  round  in  the 
desk,  held  up  his  hand,  and  said:  "Hush!"  with 
the  result  that  he  had  to  declaim  the  details  of 


The  Lady  of  Mystery  23 

John  the  Baptist's  mission,  as  a  tenor  solo;  and 
that  the  organist  noisily  turned  over  his  music- 
books  during  the  whole  time  of  the  sermon, 
apparently  in  a  prolonged  search  for  a  suitable 
recessional  voluntary'. 

Wishing  himself  back  in  his  African  forests, 
David  began  the  service,  in  a  chastened  voice, 
on  that  second  Sunday  evening. 

During  the  singing  of  the  first  of  the  evening 
psalms  the  baize-covered  door,  at  the  further  end 
of  the  church,  was  pushed  gently  open;  a  tall 
figure  entered,  alone;  closed  the  door  noiselessly 
behind  her,  and  stood  for  a  moment,  in  hesitating 
uncertainty,  beneath  the  gallery. 

Then  the  old  clerk  and  verger,  Jabez  Bones, 
bustled  out  of  his  scat,  and  ushering  her  up  the 
centre,  showed  her  into  a  cushioned  pew  on 
the  pulpit  side,  rather  more  than  half-way  up 
the  church. 

The  congregation  awoke  to  palpable  interest, 
at  her  advent.  The  choir  infused  a  tone  of 
excitement  into  the  chant,  which,  up  to  that 
moment,  had  Ix^cn  woefully  flat.  Each  pew 
she  passed,  in  the  wake  of  old  Jabez,  thereafter 
contained  a  nudge  or  a  whisper. 

David's  first  impression  nf  her.  was  of  an 
embodiment  of  silence  and  softness, — so  silently 


24         The  Following  of  the  Star 

she  passed  up  the  church  a"nd  into  the  empty 
pew,  moving  to  the  further  comer,  right  against 
the  stout  whitewashed  pillar.  No  rustle,  no 
tinkle,  marked  her  progress ;  only  a  silent  fragrance 
of  violets.  And  of  softness — soft  furs,  soft  velvet, 
soft  hair;  and  soft  grey  eyes,  beneath  the  brim 
of  a  dark  green  velvet  hat. 

But  his  second  impression  was  other  than  the 
first.  She  was  looking  at  him  with  an  expression 
of  amused  scrutiny.  Her  eyes  were  keen  and 
penetrating;  her  lips  were  set  in  lines  of  critical 
independence  of  judgment;  the  beautifully 
moulded  chin  was  firm  and  white  as  marble 
against    the    soft    brown   fur. 

She  regarded  him  steadily  for  some  minutes. 
Then  she  looked  away,  and  David  became  aware, 
by  means  of  that  subconscious  intuition,  which 
should  be  as  a  sixth  sense  to  all  ministers  and 
preachers,  that  nothing  in  the  service  reached 
her  in  the  very  least.  Her  mind  was  far  away. 
Whatever  her  object  had  been,  in  entering  the 
little  white-washed  church  of  Brambledene  on 
that  Sunday  night,  it  certainly  was  not  worship. 

But,  when  he  began  to  preach,  he  arrested 
her  attention.  His  opening  remark  evidently  ap- 
pealed to  her.  She  glanced  up  at  him,  quickly, 
a  gleam  of  amusement  and  interest  in  her  clear 


The  Lady  of  Mystery  25 

eyes.  And  afterwards,  though  she  did  not  Hft 
them  again,  and  partly  turned  away,  leaning 
against  the  pillar,  so  that  he  could  see  only  the 
clear-cut  whiteness  of  her  perfect  profile,  he  knew 
that  she  was  listening. 

From  that  hour,  David's  evening  sermons  were 
prepared  with  the  more  or  less  conscious  idea  of 
reaching  the  soul  of  that  calm  immovable  Lady 
of  Mystcr}'. 

She  did  not  attract  him  as  a  woman.  Her 
beauty  meant  nothing  to  him.  He  had  long  ago 
faced  the  fact  that  his  call  to  Central  Africa 
must  mean  celibacy.  No  man  worthy  of  the 
name  would,  for  his  own  comfort  or  delight, 
allow  a  woman  to  share  such  dangers  and  priva- 
tions as  those  through  which  he  had  to  pass. 
And,  if  five  years  of  that  climate  had  undermined 
his  own  magnificent  constitution  and  sent  him 
home  a  wreck  of  his  former  self,  surely,  had  he 
taken  out  a  wife,  it  would  simply  have  meant 
a  lonely  grave,  left  behind  in  the  African  jungle. 

So  David  had  faced  it  out  that  a  missionary's 
life,  in  a  place  where  wife  and  children  could 
not  live,  must  mean  celibacy;  nor  had  lie  the 
smallest  intention  of  ever  swerving  from  that 
decision.  His  devotion  to  his  work  filled  his 
heart.     His  i)cof)lc  were  his  children. 


26         The  Following  of  the  Star 

Therefore  no  ordinary  element  of  romance 
entered  into  his  thoughts  concerning  the  beautiful 
woman  who,  on  each  Sunday  evening,  leaned 
against  the  stone  pillar,  and  showed  by  a  slight 
flicker  of  the  eyelids  or  curve  of  the  proud  lips, 
that  she  heard  and  appreciated  each  point  in  his 
sermon. 

How  far  she  agreed,  he  had  no  means  of  know- 
ing. Who  she  was,  and  whence  she  came,  he 
did  not  attempt  to  find  out.  He  preferred  that 
she  should  remain  the  Lady  of  Mystery.  After 
her  first  appearance,  when  old  Jabez  bustled 
into  the  vestry  at  the  close  of  the  service,  he 
aboimded  in  nods  and  winks,  inarticulate  ex- 
clamations, and  chuckings  of  his  thumb  over 
his  shoulder  backward  toward  the  church.  At 
length,  getting  no  response  from  David,  he  burst 
forth:  "Sakes  alive,  sir!  I  'm  thinking  she  ain't 
bin  seen  in  a  place  o'  wash-up,  since  she  was " 

David,  half  in  and  half  out  of  his  cassock, 
turned  on  the  old  clerk  in  sudden  indignation. 

"Bones,"  he  said,  sternly,  "no  member  of  the 
congregation  should  ever  be  discussed  in  the 
vestry.  Not  another  word,  please.  Now  give 
me  the  entry  book." 

The  old  man  muttered  something  inaudible 
about    the    Rector    and    young    ^upstarts,     and 


The  Lady  of  Mystery  27 

our  poor  David  had  made  another  enemy  in 
Brambledene. 

He  never  chanced  to  see  his  Lady  of  Mystery 
arrive;  but,  after  that  first  evening,  she  never 
failed  to  be  in  her  place  when  he  came  out  of  the 
vestry;  nor  did  he  ever  see  her  depart,  always 
resisting  the  temptation  to  leave  the  church 
hurriedly  when  service  was  over. 

So  she  remained  the  Lady  of  Mystery;  and 
now — his  last  Sunday  evening  had  come;  and,  as 
he  thought  of  her,  he  longed  to  see  a  look  of  faith 
and  joy  dawn  in  her  cold  sad  eyes,  as  ardently 
as  another  man  might  have  longed  to  see  a  look 
of  love  for  himself  awaken  in  them. 

But  David  wanted  nothing  for  himself,  and  a 
great  deal  for  his  Lord.  He  wanted  this  beautiful 
personality,  this  forceful  character,  this  strong, 
self-reliant  soul;  he  wanted  this  obvious  wealth, 
this  unmistakable  possessor  of  place  and  power, 
for  his  Master's  service,  for  the  Kingdom  of  his 
King.  No  thought  of  himself  came  in  at  all. 
How  should  it?  He  wanted  to  win  her  for  her 
own  sake;  and  he  wanted  to  win  her  for  his  Lord. 
He  wanted  this  more  jx^rsistently  and  ardently  than 
he  had  ever  desired  anything  in  his  life  before. 
He  was  almost  ix'r]:)lcxc(l  at  the  insistence  of  the 
thought,  and  the  way  in  which  it  never  left  him. 


28         The  Following  of  the  Star 

And  now — the  last  chance  had  come. 

He  rose,  and  went  to  the  window.  Snowflakes 
were  falling  gently,  few  and  far  between;  but 
the  landscape  was  completely  covered  by  a  pure 
white  pall. 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  David,  "my  Lady  of 
Mystery  will  be  there,  unless  this  fall  of  snow 
keeps  her  away." 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  study,  repeating 
stray  sentences  from  his  sermon,  as  they  came 
into  his  mind. 

Sarah  brought  in  the  lamp,  and  drew  the 
maroon  rep  curtains,  shutting  out  the  snow  and 
gathering  darkness;  Sarah,  stout,  comfortable, 
and  motherly,  who — accustomed  to  the  rosy- 
cheeked  plumpness  of  her  easy-going  master — 
looked  with  undisguised  dismay  at  David's  thin 
worn  face,  and  limbs  on  which  his  clothes  still 
hung  loosely,  giving  him  an  appearance  of  not 
belonging  to  his  siirroundings,  which  tried  the 
kind  heart  and  practical  mind  of  the  Rector's 
good  housekeeper. 

"He  do  give  me  the  creeps,  poor  young  gentle- 
man, "  she  confided  to  a  friend,  who  had  dropped 
in  for  tea  and  a  chat.  "To  see  him  all  shrunk 
up,  so  to  speak,  in  Master's  big  chair;  and  just 
where  there  would  be  so  much  of  Master,  there  's 


The  Lady  of  Mystery  29 

naught  of  him,  which  makes  the  chair  seem  fair 
empty.  And  then  he  looks  up  and  speaks,  and 
his  voice  is  Uke  music,  and  his  eyes  shine  Hke 
stars,  and  he  seems  more  alive  than  Master,  or 
anybody  else  one  knows ;  yet  not  alive  in  his  poor 
thin  body;  but  alive  because  of  something  burn- 
ing and  shining  ^inside  of  'im;  something  stronger 
than  a  body,  and  more  alive  than  life-oh,  /  don't 
know!"  concluded  Sarah,  suddenly  alarmed  by 
her  o^^Ti  eloquence, 

"Creepy,  I  call  it,"  said  the  friend. 

"Creepy  it  is,"  agreed  Sarah. 

Nevertheless  she  watched  carefully  over 
David's  creature  comforts,  and  he  owed  it  to 
Sarah's  insistence,  that  he  weighed  nearly  a  stone 
heavier  when  he  left  Brambledene  than  on  his 
arrival  there. 

She  now  brought  in  tea,  temptingly  arranged 
on  a  tray,  poured  out  his  first  cup,  and  stood  a 
minute  to  watch  him  drink  it,  and  to  exhort  him 
to  wrap  up  well,  before  going  out  in  this  snow. 

"My  last  Sunday,  Sarah,"  said  David,  looking 
at  her  with  those  same  deep-set  shining  eyes. 
"I  sha'n't  Iwthcr  you  much  longer.  I  have  a 
service  to-morrow  —  Christmas-day;  and  must 
stay  over  Boxing-day  for  two  weddings.  Then 
I  'm  off  to  town ;  and  in  a  couple  of  weeks  I  sail 


30         The  Following  of  the  Star 

for  Central  Africa.  I  wonder  how  you  would 
like  Africa,  Sarah.     Are  you  afraid  of  snakes?" 

"Don't  mention  'em,  Mr.  Rivers,  sir,"  replied 
Sarah,  in  a  stage  whisper;  "nasty  evil  things! 
If  Eve  had  been  as  fearful  of  'em  as  I  am,  there  'd 
never  'ave  been  no  Fall.  You  would  n't  catch 
me  staying  to  talk  theology  with  a  serpent.  No, 
not  me,  sir!  It 's  take  to  m'  heels  and  run,  would 
have  been  my  way,  if  I  'd  'a  lived  in  Genesis 
three." 

David  smiled.  "A  good  way,  Sarah,"  he  said, 
"and  scriptural.  But  you  forget  the  attraction 
of  the  tree,  with  its  luscious  fruit.  Poor  Eve! 
The  longing  of  the  moment,  always  seems  the  great 
essential.  We  are  apt  to  forget  the  long  eternity 
of  regret." 

Sarah  sidled  respectfully  towards  the  door. 

"Eat  your  hot-buttered  toast,  before  it  grows 
cold,  sir,"  she  counselled;  " and  give  over  thinking 
about  snakes.     Dear  heart,  it 's  Christmas-eve!" 

"So  it  is,"  said  David.  "And  my  sermon  is 
about  a  star.  Right  you  are,  Sarah!  I  '11  'give 
over  thinking  about  snakes,*  and  look  higher. 
There  can  be  no  following  of  the  star  with  our 
eyes  turned  earthward.  .  .  .  All  right!  Don't 
you  worry.     I  '11  eat  every  bit." 


CHxVPTER  III 

DAVID  STIRS  THE  STILL  WATERS 

A  S  David  tramped  to  church  the  moon  was  rising. 
■'*  The  fir  trees  stood,  dark  and  stately,  be- 
neath their  nodding  plumes  of  feathery  snow. 
The  little  village  church,  with  its  white  roof,  and 
brightly  lighted  windows,  looked  like  a  Christmas 
card. 

Above  its  ivy -covered  tower,  luminous  as  a  lamp 
in  the  deep  purple  sky,  shone  out  one  brilliant  star. 

David  smiled  as  he  raised  his  eyes.  He  was 
thinking  of  Sarah  and  the  snakes.  "If  I  had 
lived  in  Genesis  three,'"  he  quoted.  "What  a 
delightful  way  of  putting  it;  as  if  Genesis  were  a 
terrace,  and  three  the  number.  Good  old  Sarah! 
Would  she  have  been  more  successful  in  coping 
with  the  tempter?  Undoubtedly  Eve  had  the 
artistic  temperament,  which  is  always  a  snare;  also 
she  had  a  woman's  instinctive  desire  to  set  others 
right,  and  to  exi)lain.  Adam  would  have  seen 
through  the  tempter's  wilful  distortion  of  the  word- 


32         The  Following  of  the  Star 

ing  of  God's  command,  and  would  not  have  been 
beguiled  into  an  argument  with  so  crafty  and  in- 
sincere an  opponent.  Poor  Eve,  in  her  desire  to 
prove  him  wrong,  to  air  her  own  superior  know- 
ledge, and  to  justify  her  Maker,  hurried  at 
once  into  the  trap,  and  was  speedily  undone. 
Here,  at  the  very  outset  of  our  history,  we  have  in 
a  nutshell  the  whole  difference  between  the  men- 
tality of  the  sexes.  Where  Eve  stood  arguing  and 
explaining, — laying  herself  open  to  a  retort  which 
shook  her  own  belief,  and  undermined  her  obedi- 
ence,— Adam  would  have  said :  "  Liar ! "  and  turned 
on  his  heel.  Yet  if  Eve  lived  nowadays  she  would 
be  quite  sure  she  could  set  right  all  mistakes  in  our 
legislature,  if  only  Adam  could  be  induced  to  let 
her  have  a  finger  in  every  pie.  Having  lived  in 
Genesis  iii.,  Adam  v/ould  know  better  than  to 
try  it!" 

As  David  reached  the  old  lich-gate,  two  brilliant 
lights  shone  down  the  road  from  the  opposite 
direction,  and  the  next  moment  a  motor  glided 
swiftly  to  the  gate,  and  stopped. 

A  footman  sprang  down  from  beside  the 
chauffeur,  opened  the  door,  touched  a  button, 
and  the  interior  of  the  car  flashed  into  light. 

Seated  within,  half  buried  in  furs,  David  saw  the 


David  Stirs  the  Still  Waters         33 

calm  sweet  face  of  his  Lady  of  Myster3\  He 
stood  on  one  side,  in  the  shadow  of  the  gate,  and 
waited. 

The  footman  drew  out  a  white  fur  rug,  and 
threw  it  over  his  left  arm;  then  held  the  door 
wide. 

She  stepped  out,  tall  and  silent.  David  saw 
the  calm  whiteness  of  her  features  in  the  moon- 
light. She  took  no  more  notice  of  her  men,  than 
if  they  had  been  machines,  but  passed  straight 
up  the  churchyard  path,  between  the  yew-tree 
sentinels,  and  disappeared  into  the  porch. 

The  footman  bundled  in  the  rug,  switched  off 
the  Hghts,  banged  the  door,  took  his  place  beside 
the  chauffeur,  and  the  large  roomy  motor  glided 
silently  away.  Nothing  remained  save  a  delicate 
fragrance  of  violets  under  the  lich-gate,  beneath 
which  she  had  passed. 

The  whole  thing  had  taken  twenty  seconds.  It 
seemed  to  David  Hkc  the  swift  haj)pcnings  of  a 
dream.  Nothing  was  left,  to  prove  its  reality,  but 
the  elusive  scent  of  violets,  and  the  marks  of  the 
huge  tyres  in  the  snow. 

But  as  David  made  his  way  round  to  the  vestry 
door,  he  knew  his  Lady  of  Mystery  was  already 
in  her  comer  beside  the  stout  whitewashed  pillar; 
and  he  also  knew  that  he  had  Ix^en  right,  in  the 


34         The  Following  of  the  Star 

surmise  which  placed  her  in  an  environment  of 
luxury  and  wealth. 

Christmas-eve  had  produced  a  larger  congre- 
gation than  usual.  The  service  was  as  cheerful  and 
noisy  as  the  choir  and  organist  could  make  it. 
David's  quiet  voice  seemed  only  to  be  heard  at 
rare  intervals,  like  the  singing  of  a  thrush  in  the 
momentary  lull  of  a  storm. 

The  Lady  of  Mystery  looked  alternately  bored 
and  amused.  Her  expression  was  more  calmly 
critical  than  ever.  She  had  discarded  her  large 
velvet  hat  for  a  soft  toque  of  silver-grey  fur,  placed 
lightly  upon  her  wealth  of  golden  hair.  This 
tended  to  reveal  the  classic  beauty  of  her  fea- 
tures, yet  made  her  look  older,  showing  up  a  hard- 
ness of  expression  which  had  been  softened  by  the 
green  velvet  brim.  David,  who  had  thought  her 
twenty-five,  now  began  to  wonder  whether  she 
were  not  older  than  himself.  Her  expression  might 
have  credited  her  with  full  thirty  years*  experience 
of  the  world. 

David  mounted  the  pulpit  steps  to  the  inspirit- 
ing strains  of  "While  shepherds  watched  their 
flocks  by  night,  all  seated  on  the  groimd. "  Al- 
ready the  inhabitants  of  Brambledene  had  had  it  at 
their  front  doors,  sung,  in  season  and  out  of  season. 


David  Stirs  the  Still  Waters        35 

by  the  school-children,  in  every  sort  of  key  and 
tempo.  Now  the  latter  returned  joyfully  to  the 
charge,  sure  of  arriving  at  the  final  verse,  without 
any  sudden  or  violent  exhortations  to  go  away. 
They  beat  the  choir's  already  rapid  rendering; 
ignored  the  organist,  and  rushed  on  without  pause, 
comma,  or  breathing  space. 

In  the  midst  of  this  erratic  description  of  the 
peaceful  scene  on  Bethlehem's  hills  on  that  Christ- 
mas night  so  long  ago,  David 's  white  earnest  face 
appeared  in  the  pulpit,  looking  down  anxiously 
upon  his  congregation. 

The  words  of  his  opening  collect  brought  a 
sense  of  peace,  though  the  silence  of  his  long  inten- 
tional pause  after  "Let  us  pray,"  had  at  first  ac- 
centuated the  remembrance  of  the  hubbub  which 
Had  preceded  it.  David  felt  that  the  weird  chant- 
ing of  his  African  savages,  echoing  among  the 
trees  of  their  i)rimeval  forests,  compared  favour- 
ably, from  the  point  of  view  both  of  reverence  and 
of  music,  with  the  singing  in  this  English  village 
church.  His  vcr>'  soul  was  jarred.  His  nerves 
were  all  on  edge. 

As  he  stood  silent,  while  the  congregation  settled 
into  their  scats,  l(K>king  do^n  he  met  the  grey 
eyes  of  his  Lady  of  Mystcr>'.  They  said:  "I  am 
waiting.     I  have  come  for  this." 


36         The  Following  of  the  Star 

Instantly  the  sense  of  inspiration  filled  him. 

With  glad  assurance  he  gave  out  his  text.  '  *  The 
gospel  according  to  St.  Matthew,  the  second 
chapter,  the  tenth  and  eleventh  verses :  '  When 
they  saw  the  star,  they  rejoiced  with  exceeding 
great  joy.  .  .  .  And  when  they  had  opened 
their  treasures,  they  presented  iinto  Him  gifts; 
gold,   and  frankincense,   and  myrrh.'" 

As  soon  as  the  text  of  a  sermon  was  given  out, 
Mr.  Churchwarden  Jones  in  his  comer,  and  Mr. 
Churchwarden  Smith  in  his,  verified  it  in  their 
Bibles,  made  sure  it  was  really  there,  and  had  been 
read  correctly.  Then  they  closed  their  Bibles  and 
placed  them  on  the  ledges  in  front  of  them;  took 
off  their  glasses,  put  them  noisily  into  spectacle- 
cases,  stowed  these  in  inner  pockets,  leant  well 
back,  and  proceeded  to  go  very  unmistakably  and 
emphatically  to  sleep. 

David  had  got  into  the  way  of  reading  his  text 
twice  over,  slowly,  while  this  performance  took 
place. 

Now,  when  he  looked  up  from  his  Bible,  the  two 
churchwardens  were  in  position.  Their  gold 
watch-chains,  looped  upon  ^their  ample  waist- 
coats, produced  much  the  same  effect  as  the  wreath- 
ing with  which  well-meaning  decorators  had  ac- 
centuated the  stoutness  of  the  whitewashed  pillars. 


David  Stirs  the  Still  Waters        37 

The  attention  of  the  congregation  was  already 
wandering.  David  made  a  desperate  effort  to 
hold  it. 

"My friends,"  he  said,  "although  it  is  Christmas- 
eve,  I  speak  to  you  to-night  on  the  Epiphany  sub- 
ject, because,  when  the  great  Feast  of  Epiphany 
comes,  I  shall  no  longer  have  the  privilege  of  ad- 
dressing you.  I  expect  to  be  on  the  ocean,  on  my 
way  to  carry  the  Christmas  message  of  'Peace  on 
earth,  good  will  toward  men,'  to  the  savage  tribes 
of  Central  Africa." 

No  one  looked  responsive.  No  one  seemed  to 
t  arc  in  the  least  where  David  Rivers  would  be  on 
the  great  Feast  of  Epiphany.  He  tried  another 
tack. 

"Our  text  deals  with  the  experience  of  those 
Wise  Men  of  the  East,  who,  guided  by  the  star, 
journeyed  over  the  desert  in  quest  of  the  new-bom 
King.  Now,  if  I  were  to  ask  this  congregation  to 
tell  me  how  many  Wi.se  Men  there  were,  I  wonder 
which  of  you  would  answer  'three.'" 

No  one  looked  in  the  least  interested.  Wliat  a 
silly  question !  What  a  senseless  cause  for  wonder ! 
Of  course  they  would  all  answer  "three."  Tlie 
youngest  infant  in  the  Sunday-school  knew  that 
there  were  three  Wise  Men. 

"Hut  why  should  you  s;iy  'three*.''"  continued 


38         The  Following  of  the  Star 

David.  "We  are  not  told  in  the  Bible  how  many 
Wise  Men  there  were.     Look  and  see." 

The  Smith  and  Jones  families  made  no  move. 
They  knew  perfectly  well  that  their  Bibles  said 
"three."  If  this  young  man's  Bible  omitted  to 
mention  the  orthodox  number,  it  was  only  another 
of  many  omissions  in  his  new-fangled  Bible  and 
imsotmd  preaching.  It  woiild  be  one  thing  more 
to  report  to  the  Rector,  on  his  return. 

But  his  Lady  of  Mystery  leaned  forward,  took 
up  a  Bible  which  chanced  to  be  beside  her,  turned 
rapidly  to  Matthew  ii.,  bent  over  it  for  a  moment, 
then  smiled,  and  laid  it  down.  David  knew  she 
had  made  sure  of  finding  "three,"  and  had  not 
found  it.     He  took  courage.     She  was  interested. 

He  launched  into  his  subject.  In  vivid  words, 
more  full  of  poetry  and  beauty  than  he  knew,  he 
rapidly  painted  the  scene ;  the  long  journey  through 
the  eastern  desert,  with  eyes  upon  the  star;  the 
anxious  days,  when  it  could  not  be  seen,  and  the 
route  might  so  easily  be  missed;  the  glad  nights 
when  it  shone  again,  luminous,  serene,  still  moving 
on  before.  The  arrival  at  Jerusalem,  the  onward 
quest   to   Bethlehem,   the    finding    of  the  King, 

Then,  the  actual  story  fully  dealt  with,  David 
turned  to  application. 

"My  friends,"   he   said,   "this  earthly  life  of 


David  Stirs  the  Still  Waters        39 

ours  is  the  desert.  Your  pilgrimage  lies  across 
its  ofttimes  drear>'  wastes.  But  if  your  journey- 
is  to  be  to  any  purpose,  if  life  is  to  be  a  success 
and  not  a  failure,  its  main  object  must  be  the  find- 
ing of  the  King.  His  guiding  Spirit  moves  before 
you  as  the  star.  His  word  is  also  the  heavenly 
lamp  which  lights  your  way.  But  I  want,  to- 
night, to  give  you  a  third  meaning  for  the  Epi- 
phany star.  The  star  stands  for  your  highest  Ideal. 
Pause  a  moment,  and  think.  .  .  .  Have  you  in 
your  life  to-night  a  heaven-sent  Ideal,  to  which 
you  are  always  true;  which  you  follow  faithfully, 
and  which,  as  you  follow  it,  leads  to  the  King?" 

David  paused.  Mrs.  Jones  rustled,  and  Mrs. 
Smith  tinkled,  but  David  heard  them  not.  The 
Lady  of  Mystery  had  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  and 
those  beautiful  sad  eyes  said:  "I  /wJ. " 

"They  lost  sight  of  the  star,"  said  David. 
"Their  hearts  were  sad,  thinking  they  had  lost  it 
forever.  But  they  found  it  again  at  Jerusalem — 
place  of  God's  holy  temple  and  worship.  Here — 
is  your  Jerusalem.  Lift  your  eyes  to-night,  higher 
than  the  mere  church  roof,  and  find  again  your  lost 
star;  see  where  .shines  your  Ideal  your  faith,  your 
hope,  your  love,  your  iK'licf  in  things  eternal. 
'And  when  they  s<'iw  the  .star, /they  rejoiced.'" 

David  paused. 


40         The  Following  of  the  Star 

Long  lashes  veiled  the  grey  eyes.  Her  hands 
were  folded  in  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  were  not  lifted 
from  them. 

"When  these  desert-travellers  found  the  King, " 
continued  David,  "they  opened  their  treasures 
and  presented  unto  Him  gifts, — gold,  and  frank- 
incense, and  myrrh.  I  know  this  is  usually  taken 
in  relation  to  Himself,  and  as  being,  in  a  threefold 
way,  typical  of  His  mission:  Gold  for  the  King; 
frankincense  for  the  great  High  Priest;  myrrh  for 
the  suffering,  dying  Saviour,  who  was  to  give  His 
life  for  the  redemption  of  the  world. 

"But  I  want  to  take  it  to-night  in  another  sense. 
Let  these  three  kinds  of  gifts  emphasise  the  three 
kinds  of  things  you  have  in  your  life  to-day,  which 
you  may  offer  to  the  King,  if  your  guiding  star 
has  led  you  to  His  feet.  They  opened  their  treas- 
ures. I  want  you  to  open  your  treasures,  to-night. 
What  are  your  treasures?  Why  yourself,  and  all 
you  possess. 

"First  let  us  consider  the  gold." 

The  Lady  of  Mystery  lifted  her  golden  head 
and  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  There  was  chal- 
lenge in  her  eyes. 

"I  do  not  necessarily  mean  your  money,"  said 
David,  "though  how  much  more  you  might  all  do 
with  that,  for  the  King  and  for  His  service,  than 


David  Stirs  the  Still  Waters        41 

you  are  already  doing.  Ah,  if  people  could  realise 
how  greatly  gold  is  needed  for  His  work,  they 
would  soon  open  their  treasures  and  pour  it  forth! 
I  have  told  you  of  my  vast  parish,  out  in  the  unex- 
plored forests,  swamps,  and  jungles  of  Central 
Africa.  Do  you  know  what  I  want  for  my  people, 
there?  Think  of  all  you  have  here — of  all  you 
have  had,  ever  since  you  can  remember.  Then 
listen:  I  want  a  church;  I  want  schools;  I  want 
books;  I  want  a  translation  of  the  Bible,  and 
a  printing-press  to  print  it  with."  David's  eyes 
glowed,  and  he  threw  grammar  to  the  winds!  "I 
want  a  comrade  to  help  me,  and  a  steam-launch 
with  which  to  navigate  great  lakes  and  rivers.  I 
want  all  these  things,  and  I  want  them  for  my 
Master,  and  for  His  work.  I  can  give  my  own  life, 
but  it  is  all  I  have  to  give.  I  have  been  taking 
your  Rector's  place  here  for  six  weeks  in  order  to 
earn  twelve  guineas,  which  will  enabk^  me  to  take 
out  a  good  medicine-chest  with  which  to  doctor 
my  people,  and  to  compk'te  my  necessary  outfit." 

Mr.  Churchwarden  Jones  was  awake  by  now, 
and  fidgeted  uncomfortably.  This  young  man 
should  not  have  mentioned  his  stijxjnd,  from  the 
pulpit.     It  was  decidedly  unsuitable. 

"Your  Rector,"  continued  David,  "knowing 
why  I  need  it,  is  generously  doubling  that  payment. 


42         The  Following  of  the  Star 

May  God  bless  him  for  it,  when  he  takes  up  again 
his  ministry  among  you." 

They  were  all  listening  now.  David's  eyes 
glowed  like  hot  coals  in  his  thin  face.  His  voice 
rang  through  the  church. 

"Ah,  friends,"  he  said,  "those  who  have  all  they 
need  for  their  comfortable  spiritual  life,  cannot  real- 
ise the  awful,  desperate  want,  in  those  wild  places 
of  the  earth.  We  enjoy  quoting  what  we  call  a 
*  gospel  text ' :  '  Whosoever  shall  call  upon  the  name 
of  the  Lord  shall  be  saved.'  But  too  often  we 
pause  there,  in  self -appropriating  complacency, 
forgetting  that  the  whole  point  of  the  passage  lies 
in  what  follows:  'How  then  shall  they  call  on 
Him  in  Whom  they  have  not  believed?  And 
how  shall  they  believe  in  Him  of  Whom  they 
have  not  heard?  And  how  shall  they  hear,  with- 
out a  preacher?  And  how  shall  they  preach 
except  they  be  sent?'  You  must  answer  all  these 
questions,  when  you  open  your  treasures  at  the 
feet  of  the  King. 

"But  forgive  me  for  intruding  my  own  interests. 
This  is  not  a  missionary  sermon.  "—Here  Mrs. 
Smith  nodded,  energetically.  That  was  exactly 
what  she  had  already  whispered  to  Mr.  Smith. — 
"Also  'gold'  stands  for  much  besides  money. 
Think  of  all  the  golden  things  in  life.     The  joys, 


David  Stirs  the  Still  Waters         43 

the  brightness,  the  glory  of  success;  all  beauty,  all 
gaiety,  all  golden  mirth  and  laughter.  Let  all 
these  golden  things  be  so  consecrated  that,  opening 
your  treasures,  you  can  at  any  moment  bring  them 
as  offerings  to  your  King. 

"But  the  second  gift  was  frankincense."  David 
paused,  giving  each  listener — and  at  last  there  were 
many — time  to  wonder  what  in  his  or  her  life 
stood  for  frankincense. 

"Frankincense,"  said  David,  "is,  first  of  all, 
your  worship.  And  by  worship,  I  do  not  neces- 
sarily mean  public  worship  in  church,  important 
though  that  be.  I  mean  the  constant  worship  of 
an  adoring  heart.  'O  worship  the  Lord  in  the 
beauty  of  holiness. '  Unless  your  daily  life  from 
Monday  to  Saturday  is  a  life  of  worship,  there  will 
not  be  much  reality  in  your  public  worship  on 
Sunday.  And  then,  frankincense  stands  for  all 
that  appertains  to  the  spirit  part  of  you — your 
ideals,  your  noblest  loves,  your  finest  aspirations. 
Open  your  treasures,  friends,  and  bring  these  to 
your  King. 

"And,  lastly,  myrrh."  David  paused,  and  a 
look  so  calm,  .so  holy,  so  sublime,  passed  into  his 
face,  that  to  one  who  watched  him  then,  and  who 
chanced  to  know  the  meaning  of  that  look,  his 
face  was  as  the  face  of  an  angel. 


44         The  Following  of  the  Star 

"The  myrrh,"  he  said,  "stands  for  death. 
Some  of  us  may  be  called  upon  definitely  to  face 
death,  for  the  King's  sake.  But  all  who  have 
lived  unto  Him  in  Hfe,  can  glorify  Him  in  death. 
'Precious  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  is  the  death  of 
His  saints. '  We  can  all  at  last  bring  to  Him  this 
gift — a  gift  which,  in  the  bringing,  will  indeed 
bring  us  into  His  very  presence.  But,  meanwhile, 
your  present  offering  of  myrrh  is  the  death  of  self; 
the  daily  crucifying  of  the  self -life.  'For  the  love 
of  Christ  constraineth  us;  because  we  thus  judge, 
that  if  one  died  for  all,  then  were  all  dead ;  and  that 
He  died  for  all,  that  they  which  live  should  not 
henceforth  live  unto  themselves,  but  unto  Him, Who 
died  for  them,  and  rose  again. '  Your  response  to 
that  constraining  love,your  acceptance  of  that  aton- 
ing death,  your  acquiesence  in  that  crucifixion  of 
self,  constitute  your  offering  of  myrrh. 

"  But  myrrh,  in  the  Bible,  stands  for  other  things 
besides  death.  We  must  not  pause  to  do  so  now, 
but  sometime,  at  your  leisure,  look  out  each  men- 
tion of  myrrh.  You  will  find  it  stands  for  love — 
love  of  the  sweetest,  tenderest  kind ;  love  so  com- 
plete, that  it  must  bring  with  it  self-abnegation, 
and  a  mingling  of  pain  with  its  bliss. 

"And  you  will  find  it  stands  for  sorrow;  not  bit- 
terness of  woe ;  but  sorrow  accepted  as  the  Father's 


David  Stirs  the  Still  Waters        45 

will,  and  therefore  touched  with  reverent  joy.  Ah, 
bring  your  sorrows  as  gifts  to  your  King.  '  Surely 
He  hath  borne  our  griefs,  and  carried  our  sorrows. ' 
Bring  even  these,  and  lay  them  at  His  feet." 

David  closed  his  Bible,  placing  it  on  the  cushion, 
folded  his  hands  upon  it,  and  leaned  down  from 
the  high  pulpit. 

"My  friends,"  he  said, — and  those  who  looked 
up  responsive  never  forgot  the  light  in  his  eyes — 
"I  am  leaving  this  dear  home  land  of  ours  on  the 
day  when  we  shall  be  keeping  the  Feast  of  the  Star. 
My  star  leads  me  to  a  place  from  which  I  do  not 
ever  expect  to  return.  My  offering  of  myrrh  to 
my  King,  is  a  grave  in  an  African  forest,  and  I  offer 
it  gladly. 

"  But,  may  I  now  say  to  you,  whose  faces — after 
to-morrow — I  never  expect  to  see  again :  Do  not 
lose  sight  of  your  star,  as  you  travel  across  life's 
desert.  Look  up,  lo<jk  on;  ever,  in  earnest  faith, 
move  forward.  I^icn  I  can  leave  with  each  one 
in  this  congregation,  as  a  farewell  promise" — he 
looked  at  iUl  present;  but  his  eyes  met  the  grey 
eyes,  now  swimming  in  tears,  of  his  Lady  of  Mys- 
tery; met,  and  held  them,  with  searching  solemn 
gaze,  as  he  uttered  his  final  words — 

"Tliinc  eyes  shall  sec  the  King  in  His  Ix^auty; 
they  shall  behold  the  Land  that  is  ver>'  far  off." 


CHAPTER  IV 

DIANA   RIVERS,    OF   RIVERSCOURT 

pERHAPS  the  greatest  tribute  to  David's 
*  sermon,  was  the  quiet  way  in  which  the 
good  people  of  Brambledene  rose  to  their  feet  at 
its  close. 

Lead,  Kindly  Light  was  simg  with  unusual 
feeling  and  reverence. 

The  collection,  for  Chiu^ch  Expenses,  was  the 
largest  ever  taken  in  Brambledene  Church,  within 
the  memory  of  man.  In  one  of  the  plates,  there 
was  gold.  David  knew  quite  well  who  had  put 
in  that  sovereign. 

He  sat  at  the  vestry  table  and  fingered  it 
thoughtfully.  He  had  disrobed  while  the  church- 
wardens counted  the  money  and  commented  on 
the  unusual  amount  of  the  collection,  and  the 
remarkable  fact  of  a  sovereign  in  the  plate.  They 
left  the  money  in  little  piles  on  the  red  cloth,  for 
David  to  carry  home  and  lock  up  in  the  Rector's 

safe. 

46 


Diana  Rivers,  of  Riverscourt        47 

He  had  now  to  enter  his  text,  and  the  amount 
of  the  collection,  in  the  vestry  book. 

He  had  glanced  down  the  church  as  he  left  the 
chancel.  His  Lady  of  Mystery  was  still  on  her 
knees  in  the  comer  near  the  pillar,  her  head  bowed 
in  her  hands.  He  had  seen  the  top  of  her  grey 
fur  hat,  with  soft  waves  of  golden  hair  on  either 
side  of  it. 

He  took  up  the  pen  and  entered  his  text. 

Then  he  laid  the  pen  down,  and  glanced  at 
back  records  of  evening  collections  for  Church 
Expenses.  He  did  not  hurry.  He  could  hear 
very  faintly  in  the  distance  the  throbbing  of  a 
motor,  waiting  at  the  lich-gate.  He  knew  exactly 
how  it  looked,  waiting  in  the  snow';  two  great 
acetylene  lamps  in  front;  delicate  electric  bulbs 
lighting  the  interior,  one  in  each  comer  of  the 
roof.  He  knew  just  how  she  would  look,  as  the 
footman  tucked  the  white  fur  rug  around  her. 
She  would  lean  back,  rather  bored  and  impatient, 
and  take  no  more  notice  of  the  man,  than  if  he 
were  a  machine.  David  hated  that  kind  of  Ix?- 
haviour  toward  those  who  serve.  He  held  that 
every  service,  even  the  smallest,  should  receive 
a  kindly  acknowledgment. 

He  turned  the  pages  of  the  vestry  book.  Six 
shillings  and  eleven  i)cnce.     Two  and  four  pence 


48         The  Following  of  the  Star 

halfpenny.  Three  and  six.  Four  shilHngs  and 
nine  pence  three  farthings.  Seven  and  ten  pence. 
And  now  he  was  about  to  enter:  "two  pounds, 
eight  shilHngs,  and  seven  pence  halfpenny." 
Even  without  the  gold  she  had  put  in,  it  was  a 
large  increase  on  former  offerings.  Truly  these 
good  people  opened  their  treasures  when  at  last 
their  hearts  were  touched. 

David  was  alone  in  the  vestry.  He  could  hear 
old  Jabez  Bones  bustling  about  in  the  church, 
putting  out  the  lamps,  occasionally  knocking 
down  books,  and  picking  them  up  again;  doing 
in  appearance  three  times  as  much  as  he  accom- 
plished in  reality. 

David  took  up  the  pen.  He  did  not  hurry. 
The  rhythmic  panting  of  the  engine  still  reached 
him,  faintly,  across  the  snowy  mounds.  He 
did  not  intend  to  arrive  r.t  the  lich-gate  until  that 
dream-m.otor  had  gUded  noiselessly  out  of  sight. 

As  he  bent  over  the  book  to  make  the  entry, 
the  vestry  door  was  pushed  softly  open.  He 
heard  no  sound;  but  a  subtle  fragrance  of  violets 
suddenly  surrounded  him. 

David  looked  up. 

Framed  in  the  Gothic  arch  of  the  narrow  door- 
way, her  large  grey  eyes  fixed  upon  him  in  un- 
wonted gentleness,  stood  his  Lady  of  Mystery. 


Diana  Rivers,  of  Riverscourt        49 

David  was  so  completely  taken  by  surprise, 
that  he  forgot  to  rise  to  his  feet.  He  dropped  his 
pen,  but  still  sat  on  the  high  vestry  stool,  and 
gazed  at  her  in  speecliless  wonderment. 

*'I  have  come,"  said  his  Lady  of  Mystery,  and 
her  low-pitched  voice  was  full  of  music;  "I  have 
come  to  bring  you  my  gifts — gold,  frankincense, 
and  myrrh." 

"Not  to  me,"  said  David.  "You  must  not 
bring  them  to  me.  You  must  bring  them  to  the 
King." 

"I  must  bring  them  to  you,"  she  said,  "because 
I  know  no  other  way.  I  have  sought  the  Christ, 
and  found  HIM  not.  I  had  lost  my  way  in  the 
dreary  darkness  of  the  desert.  To-night  you  have 
cleared  my  sky.  Once  more  I  see  the  shining  of 
the  Star.  You  have  shown  me  that  I  have  these 
three  gifts  to  offer.  I'ut  I  must  bring  them  to 
you,  David  Rivers,  because  you  are  the  most 
Christlike  man  I  have  ever  kno^^'n,  and  you 
stand  to  me  for  your  King." 

"I  cannot  stand  for  my  King,"  said  David, 
unconscious  of  the  light  in  his  own  eyes,  or  the 
divine  radiance  reflected  on  his  face.  "I  am 
but  His  messenger;  the  voice  in  the  wilderness, 
crying:  'Projjare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord.'" 

ITic   Lady  of   Mystery   moved  a  step  nearer. 


50         The  Following  of  the  Star 

and  laid  one  hand  on  the  vestry  table.  She  bent 
toward  him.  Two  wax  candles,  in  brass  candle- 
sticks, stood  upon  the  table,  on  either  side  of 
the  vestry  book,  providing  the  only  illumination. 
In  the  light  of  these,  they  looked  into  one  another's 
faces. 

"You  have  certainly  prepared  His  way  in  my 
heart  to-night,"  she  said,  "and  I  believe  you  are 
going  to  make  straight  for  me  the  tangle  of  my 
life.  Only,  first  of  all,  you  must  know  who  I 
am.     Has  anybody  told  you?     Do  you  know?" 

"Nobody  has  told  me,"  said  David,  "and  I  do 
not  know." 

"What  have  you  called  me,  to  yourself,  all 
these  weeks?" 

"My  Lady  of  Mystery,"  answered  David, 
simply;  wondering  how  she  knew  he  had  called 
her  anything. 

She  smiled,  and  there  seemed  to  be  twenty  wax 
candles  in  the  vestry,  rather  than  two. 

"Quite  pretty,"  she  said;  "but  too  much  like 
a  story-book,  to  be  practically  useful."  She 
drew  a  small  purple  bag  from  her  muff;  took  out 
a  card,  and  laid  it  on  the  table  in  front  of  him. 
"You  must  know  who  I  am,"  she  said,  "and  where 
I  live;  because,  you  see,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to 
dinner." 


Diana  Rivers,  of  Riverscourt        51 

She  smiled  again;  and  David  bent  over  the 
card.  She  marked  his  involuntary  movement  of 
surprise. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  Diana  Rivers,  of  Rivers- 
court.  Had  you  heard  of  me  before?  I  suppose 
we  are,  in  some  sort,  cousins." 

But  David  sat  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the 
card  before  him.  Alas,  what  was  happening? 
His  Lady  of  Mystery  had  vanished.  This  tall 
girl,  in  furs  and  velvet,  with  her  brilliant  smile, 
sweet  low  voice,  and  assured  manner,  was  the 
greatest  heiress  in  the  county;  Master  of  the 
Hounds ;  patron  of  four  livings ;  notorious  for  her 
advanced  views  and  fearless  independence;  a 
power  and  a  terror  in  the  whole  neighbourhood. 
His  Lady  of  Myster>'  who,  under  his  guidance, 
was  to  become  a  meek  and  lowly  follower  of  the 
Star!     Poor  David! 

He  looked  so  thin  and  forlorn,  for  the  moment, 
that  Diana  felt  an  amused  desire  to  put  him 
into  an  arm-chair,  and  i)ly  him  with  champagne. 

"Of  course  I  have  heard  of  you,  Miss  levers," 
he  said,  slowly.  "Mr.  Goldsworthy  told  me  all 
alK>ut  you,  during  my  first  evening  at  the  Rectory. 
He  asked  me  whether  we  were  related." 

"Dear  old  thing!"  remarked  Diana,  lightly. 
"He  is  my  godfather,  you  know;  and  I  think  his 


52         The  Following:  of  the  Star 


t> 


anxiety  over  my  spiritual  condition  is  the  one 
thing  which  keeps  him  of  a  size  to  pass  through 
the  pulpit  door!" 

"Don't,"  said  David. 

She  looked  at  him,  with  laughter  in  her  eyes. 

"All  right,  Cousin  David.  I  did  not  mean  to 
be  flifJpant.     And  we  are  cousins,  you  know." 

"I  think  not,"  he  answered,  gravely.  "I  am 
of  very  humble  origin;  and  I  never  heard  of  my 
people  claiming  kinship  with  courts  of  any  kind." 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly!"  retorted  Diana,  drumming 
on  the  vestry  table,  with  her  firm,  gloved  fingers ; 
but  her  tone  was  so  gentle,  that  it  almost  held  a 
caress.  "Don't  be  silly,  Cousin  David.  The 
humblest  people  live  in  coin-ts,  in  London;  and 
all  rivers  run  into  the  sea!  Nothing  but  the 
genuine  Rivers'  pluck  could  have  faced  these 
good  folk  Sunday  after  Sunday;  and  only  the 
fire  of  the  real  old  Rivers'  stock,  could  have 
made  them  sit  up  and  listen  to-night.  You  look 
just  like  grandpapa,  confoimding  the  Opposition 
from  his  seat  on  the  government  benches,  when 
you  attack  Mrs.  Smith  for  turning  over  the  pages 
of  her  Bible  in  that  distracting  and  senseless 
way.  I  can  fancy  myself  back  in  the  Ladies' 
Gallery,  longing  to  cheer.  We  must  claim  kin- 
ship. Cousin  David." 


Diana  Rivers,  of  Riverscourt        53 

"I  think  not,"  he  repeated  firmly.  He  looked 
very  small,  and  thin,  and  miserable,  huddled 
up  on  the  vestr>'  stool.  His  threadbare  clerical 
jacket  seemed  several  sizes  too  large  for  him. 
"Diana  Rivers,  of  Riverscourt!"  Oh,  where 
was  his  dear  Lady  of  Mystery? 

If  Diana  wanted  to  shake  him,  she  kept  the 
desire  well  in  hand.  Her  voice  grew  even  deeper; 
more  full  of  music,  more  softly  gentle. 

"Well,  cousin  or  no  cousin,"  she  said,  "I  want 
your  advice,  and  I  can't  do  without  your  help. 
Where  do  you  take  your  Christmas  dinner,  David 
Rivers?" 

"WTiy,  at  the  Rector>',"  he  answered,  looking 
up.  "I  have  no  friends  here."  Then  a  gleam  of 
amusement  passed  over  his  face:  "Sarah  says,  as 
it  is  Christmas,  she  is  'going  to  a  fowl,' "  he  said. 

"  I  see.  And  you  arc  planning  to  eat  your  fowl 
in  sohtary  grandeur  at  the  Rectory?  Well,  / 
will  'go  to  a  turkey'  and  a  plum-pudding,  and, 
possibly,  mince-pies;  and  you  shall  dine  with  me 
on  Christmas  night.  The  idea  of  a  lonely  meal 
on  your  last — I  mean,  your  one  Christmas-day 
in  England!" 

"You  arc  very  kind,"  said  David;  "but  is  not 
Riverscourt  twelve  miles  from  here?" 

"My   chaufTcur   docs   it   in    twenty    minutes," 


54         The  Following  of  the  Star 

replied  Diana.  "It  would  be  as  much  as  his 
place  is  worth  to  take  twenty-one.  I  will  send 
the  motor  for  you  at  seven,  and  we  will  dine  at 
half  past.  They  can  run  you  back  whenever  you 
like.  Does  your  household  retire  early?  Or 
perhaps  you  are  allowed  a  latch-key." 

David  smiled.  "My  household  consists  of 
Sarah,  Mr.  Goldsworthy's  faithful  housekeeper; 
and  as  I  usually  sit  up  reading  imtil  midnight, 
she  retires  early,  and  trusts  me  to  put  out  the 
lamps  and  to  lock  up." 

"Ah,  I  know  Sarah,"  said  Miss  Rivers.  "A 
worthy  soul.  She  and  I  are  excellent  friends.  We 
hold  the  same  views  on  women's  rights,  and  we 
love  discussing  them.  Mere  man — even  godpapa 
— dwindles  to  nothing,  when  arraigned  at  the  bar 
of  Sarah's  intrepid  judgment.  Very  well,  then. 
The  motor  at  seven." 

But  David  still  hesitated.  "You  are  very 
kind,"  he  said.  "But — you  see,  we  don't  have 
dinner-parties  in  Central  Africa.  And  since  I 
came  home,  I  have  mostly  been  in  hospital.  I 
am  afraid  I  haven't" — he  looked  down  at  his 
short  jacket.  "I  don't  even  possess  a  long  coat," 
he  said,  simply. 

"Oh  don't  be  tiresome,  Cousin  David!"  cried 
Miss  Rivers.     "If  I  wanted  conventional  evening 


Diana  Rivers,  of  Riverscourt        55 

dress,  I  know  a  dozen  men  whom  I  could  invite 
to  dinner.  I  want  you,  not  your  clothes.  If  one 
is  greatly  interested  in  a  book,  does  one  bother 
to  consider  the  binding?  Bring  your  mind  along, 
and  come  prepared  to  be  helpful;  for,  God  knows" 
— her  eyes  grew  deep  and  earnest — "God  knows 
I  want  helping,  more  than  any  of  your  African 
savages.  Come  as  you  are,  Cousin  David.  Come 
as  the  Voice  in  the  Wilderness.  It  is  all  I  ask. 
Besides,  there  will  only  be  myself  and  Chappie; 
and  Chappie  does  n't  count." 

She  drew  off  a  soft  grey  glove;  then  held  out 
to  him  firm  white  fingers.  He  took  them  in  his. 
They  clasped  hands  silently;  and,  once  more, 
by  the  light  of  the  two  wax  candles,  looked 
searchingly  into  each  other's  eyes.  Each  read 
there  a  quiet  compact  of  friendship  and  of  trust. 

"I  will  come,"  .said  David.  She  paused  with 
her  hand  on  the  door,  looking  back  at  him  over 
her  shoulder.  Her  tall  head  nearly  touched  the 
top  of  the  archway. 

"If  you  do,"  she  said,  "we  must  consider  the 
question  of  your  church,  your  schools,  your 
printing-press,  and  your  steamer.  So,  an  rci'oir, 
lo-morrow." 

She  threw  him  a  little  reassuring  smile,  and 
passed  out. 


56         The  Following  of  the  Star 

The  fragrance  of  violets,  the  sound  of  her  low 
voice,  the  card  upon  the  table,  remained. 

David  took  up  the  pen  and  made  the  entry  in 
the  vestry  book:  two  pounds,  eight  shillings,  and 
seven  pence  halfpenny.  Then  he  gathered  up  all 
the  little  piles  of  silver  and  copper,  and  put  them 
into  his  coat  pockets;  but  Diana's  sovereign  he 
slipped  by  itself  into  one  waistcoat  pocket,  and 
her  card  into  the  other. 

Then  suddenly  he  realised — poor  David — that 
she  had  stood  beside  him  during  the  whole  inter- 
view, while  he  had  sat  on  the  vestry  stool. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Oh  I  say!"  he  cried. 
"Oh— I  say!" 

But  there  was  nothing  to  say;  and  no  one  to 
whom  to  say  it. 

Poor  David! 

He  sat  down  again,  put  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
and  dropped  his  head  into  his  hands. 

Diana  Rivers  of  Riverscourt!  Patron  of  four 
livings!  Acknowledged  leader  of  the  gayest  set 
in  the  county;  known  far  and  wide  for  her 
independence  of  character  and  advanced  views! 

Bones  came  shuffling  up  the  chancel,  rattling 
the  church  keys.  There  was  also  a  sovereign  of 
Diana's  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  he  showed 


Diana  Rivers,  of  Riverscourt        57 

no  irritation  as  he  locked  up  the  vestr}''  book, 
and    returned    David's    good-night. 

"A  'appy  Christmas,  sir,"  he  said,  "an'  many 
of  'em;  if  they  'ave  'em  in  them  wild  parts." 

As  David  plodded  home  through  the  snow,  his 
mind  dwelt,  with  curious  persistence,  on  one 
question:  "Now  who  on  earth  is  'Chappie'?" 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  NOISELESS   NAPIER 


"T  AM  morally  certain  'Chappie'  is  a  poodle,'* 
*  thought  David  to  himself,  at  breakfast.  "It 
would  be  just  like  her  to  have  a  large  black  poodle, 
abnormally  clever,  perfectly  clipped,  tied  up 
with  green  ribbons  to  match  her  hat,  and  treated 
in  all  respects  as  a  human  being;  excepting  that, 
of  course,  his  opinion  on  the  cut  of  her  guests' 
clothes  would  not  matter.  'Chappie  does  not 
count, '  she  said ;  but  I  '11  be  bound  he  counts  a 
lot,  in  most  respects.  I  hope  Chappie  will  like 
me.     How  does  one  whistle  to  a  poodle?" 

David  was  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  prac- 
tising various  seductive  ways  of  whistling  to 
Chappie,  when  Sarah  came  in,  to  clear  the  break- 
fast table. 

Sarah  had  put  a  Christmas  card  on  David's 

plate  that  morning,  and  had  kept  nervously  out 

of  the  way,  while  he  opened  the  envelope.     The 

card  had  evidently  been  chosen  with  great  care, 

58 


The  Noiseless  Napier  59 

and  an  eye  to  its  suitability.  A  large  bunch  of 
forget-me-nots  figured  in  the  centre,  tied  with  a 
lover's  knot  of  blue  ribbon.  Above  this,  two 
embossed  hands — Sarah's  and  David's  of  course — 
were  clasped.  Above  these  again,  flew  two  turtle- 
doves. They  carried  a  scroll  between  them, 
depending  from  either  beak,  bearing  in  gold 
lettering,  "The  Compliments  of  the  Season." 
At  the  bottom  of  the  card  were  two  blank  lines 

beginning   with   "To  "   and   "From   ". 

Sarah  had  filled  in,  with  much  labour,  and  rather 
brown  ink : 

To  the  Reverant  David  rivers 

From  Yours  rispectfiilly  Sarah 

David,  delighted,  stood  the  card  in  the  place 
of  honour  on  the  mantelpiece,  in  front  of  the 
clock.  When  Sarah  came  in,  he  stopped  whist- 
ling to  Chappie,  went  fonvard  at  once  and  shook 
hands  with  her,  thanking  her  warmly  for  the 
Christmas  card. 

"The  only  one  I  received,  Sarah;  and  I  do 
think  it  most  awfully  pretty." 

Sarah  admitted  that  it  ivas  that;  explained  at 
great  length  where  she  got  it,  and  why  she  chose 
it;  and  described  a  good  many  other  cards  she  had 
nearly  bought  but  eventually  rejected  in  favour 
of  the  forget-me-nots,  thinking  they  would  "look 


6o         The  Following  of  the  Star 

homelike  in  them  outlandish  places, "  and  ensure 
David's  kind  remembrance  of  her. 

David  protested  that,  card  or  no  card,  he 
would  never  forget  Sarah,  and  all  her  thoughtful 
care  of  him;  and  Sarah  wiped  her  eyes  with  a 
comer  of  her  apron,  and  only  wished  there  was 
more  of  him  to  care  for. 

David  felt  this  rather  embarrassingly  personal, 
and  walked  over  to  the  window  to  throw  crumbs 
to  a  robin.  Then  he  turned,  as  Sarah,  having 
folded  the  cloth,  was  preparing  to  leave  the 
room. 

"Sarah,"  he  said,  "I  have  had  an  invitation. 
I  am  dining  out  to-night. " 

Sarah's  face  fell.  "Oh,  Mr.  Rivers,  sir!  And 
me  going  to  a  chicking,  being  as  it  was  Christ- 
mas!" 

"Well,  Sarah,  you  see  my  friend  thought  it 
was  dtill  that  I  should  dine  by  myself  on  Christ- 
mas night.  And  if  you  had  gone  to  a  chicken, 
I  should  indeed  be  left  alone. " 

* '  Get  along,  sir ! "  chuckled  Sarah.  * '  You  know 
my  meaning.  And,  if  it 's  Smiths  or  Joneses,  I 
misdoubt  if  you  '11  get  so  good  a  dinner " 

"It  is  n't  Smiths  or  Joneses,  Sarah.  It  is  Miss 
Rivers,  of  Riverscourt.  And  she  has  promised 
me  a  turkey,  and  a  plum-pudding,  and  possibly 


The  Noiseless  Napier  6i 

— only  I  must  not  count  too  much  on  those — 
possibly,  mince-pies!" 

Sarah's  face  expanded.  "Oh,  if  it's  Miss 
Diana,  sir,  you  can't  do  better.  There  's  none 
like  Miss  Diana,  to  my  thinking.  And  we  can 
have  the  chicking  on  Boxing-day.  And,  with 
your  leave,  if  I  'm  not  wanted,  I  'm  asked  out  to 
friends  this  evening,  which  I  had  n't  no  intention 
of  mentioning.  And  Mr.  Rivers,  sir;  mark  my 
words.  You  can't  do  better  than  Miss  Diana. 
We  've  known  her  from  a  babe,  master  an'  me. 
Folks  talk,  because  she  don't  hold  with  getting 
married,  and  because  she  don't  do  much  church- 
going;  but,  begging  your  pardon,  sir,  I  don't 
hold  with  cither,  m'sclf.  Marriage  means  slav- 
ing away,  with  few  thanks  and  fewer  ha'pence; 
and  church-going  mostly  means,  for  women- 
folk, a  vicing  with  one  another's  bonnets.  I 
don't  go  to  feathers,  m'sclf;  always  having  been 
well-contcTit  with  beads.  And  I  jxiy  my  respects 
to  Almighty  God,  at  home." 

"  'Not  forsaking  the  assembling  of  ourselves 
together,  as  the  manner  of  some  is,'  "  quoted 
David.  "You  forget  the  injunction  of  the  writer 
to  the  Hebrews,  Sarah." 

"That  don't  hold  good  for  now,  Mr.  Riv- 
ers,    sir,"     replied     Sarah,      with      conviclic^n; 


62         The  Following  of  the  Star 

"any  more  than  many  other  /fepistolic  re- 
marks," 

"They  all  hold  good  for  now,  Sarah,"  said 
David,  gravely. 

"Then  what  about  'let  your  women  keep 
silence  in  the  churches'?  Hark  to  them  rowdy 
Miss  Joneses  in  the  choir!" 

"They  do  make  a  row,"  admitted  David,  off 
his  guard. 

"And  'if  they  will  learn  anything,  let  them 
ask  their  husbands  at  home'?"  Sarah  was  evi- 
dently well  up  in  her  Bible. 

"Well,  why  not?"  queried  David. 

"Why  not,  Mr.  Rivers,  sir?"  repeated  Sarah, 
scornfully.  "Why  not?  Why  because  stay-at- 
home  husbands  ain't  likely  to  be  able  to  teach 
go-to-church  wives!  And,  even  if  they  did,  how 
about  me  an'  Miss  Diana,  as  has  none?" 

This  seemed  unanswerable,  though  it  had  no- 
thing whatever  to  do  with  the  point  at  issue.  But 
David  had  no  suggestions  to  offer  concerning 
the  limitations  contingent  on  the  spinsterhood  of 
Sarah  and  of  Miss  Diana.  It  therefore  gave 
Sarah  the  last  word;  which,  to  the  female  mind, 
means  victory;  and  she  bore  away  the  breakfast 
cloth  in  triumph. 

When  she  brought  in  tea  that  afternoon,  she 


The  Noiseless  Napier  63 

lingered  a  few  minutes,  giving  the  fire  a  little 
unnecessary  attention,  and  furtively  watching 
David,  as  he  put  salt  on  his  hot-buttered  toast. 

Then  she  said  tentatively:  "Mr.  Rivers,  sir, 
there  are  one  or  two  things  about  Miss  Diana 
you  might  as  well  know,  before  you  go  over 
there. " 

"No,  thank  you,  Sarah,"  said  David,  with 
decision.  "Whatever  Miss  Rivers  wishes  me  to 
know,  she  will  tell  me  herself.  Anything  she 
does  not  herself  tell  me,  I  prefer  not  to  hear  from 
others." 

Sarah  surveyed  him;  and  her  look  expressed 
amazement  and  disapproval. 

"Well  I  never!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  arc 
different  from  master!  All  I  hear  in  the  village 
I  tell  master  while  I  wait  on  him  at  dinner.  He 
says:  'You  may  as  well  tell  me  what  you  hear, 
my  good  Sarah;  and  then  I  can  judge  how  to 
act.'  " 

David  smiled.  He  had  already  discovered  the 
good  Rector's  love  of  gossip. 

"But  you  see,  Sarah,"  he  said,  "being  only  a 
locum  tencns,  I  do  not,  fortunately,  have  to 
act." 

"Don't  disparage  yourself,  sir,"  advised  Sarah, 
still  disappointed,  almost  aggrieved.     "And  even 


64         The  Following  of  the  Star 

if  folks  here  have  called  you  so,  you  won't  be  that 
to  Miss  Diana." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  David,  cheerfully.  "I  do  not 
propose  to  be  a  locum  tenens  to  Miss  Diana!" 

The  motor  glided  up  to  the  Rectory  gate  at 
seven  o'clock,  to  the  minute.  David  saw  the 
flash  of  the  acetylene  lamps  on  his  bed-room 
blind. 

He  ran  down  the  stairs,  filled  with  a  delightful 
sense  of  holiday-making,  and  adventure. 

His  one  clerical  suit  was  carefully  brushed,  and 
Sarah  had  "pressed  it,"  a  mysterious  process 
from  which  it  emerged  with  a  youthful,  unwrink- 
led  air,  to  which  it  had  for  long  been  a  stranger. 
His  linen  was  immaculate.  He  had  shaved  with 
extreme  care.  He  felt  so  festive,  that  his  lack  of 
conventional  evening  clothes  troubled  him  no 
longer.  He  slipped  Sarah's  Christmas  card  into 
his  pocket.  He  knew  Diana  would  appreciate 
the  pathos  and  humour  of  those  clasped  hands 
and  forget-me-nots. 

Then  he  went  down  the  garden  path,  and 
entered  the  motor.  The  footman  arranged  the 
fur  rug  over  his  knees,  showed  him  how  to  switch 
off  the  electric  lights  if  he  preferred  darkness, 
shut  the  door,  took  his  seat  beside  the  motion- 


The  Noiseless  Napier  65 

less  chauffeur,  and  instantly  they  gUded  away 
down  the  lane,  and  turned  into  the  high  road 
leading  to  Riversmead. 

It  seemed  wonderful  to  David  to  be  flying 
along  in  Diana's  sumptuous  motor.  He  had 
never  before  been  in  a  powerful  noiseless  Napier 
car,  and  he  found  it  somewhat  of  an  experience. 
Involuntarily  he  thought  of  the  time  when  he 
had  been  so  deadly  weak  from  African  fever,  and 
his  people  had  had  somehow  to  get  him  to  the 
coast;  the  rough  Httle  cart  on  wheels  they  made 
to  hold  him  and  his  mattress,  and  tried  to  draw 
him  along  the  apology-  for  a  road.  But  the 
shaking  and  bumping  had  been  so  absolutely 
unbearable,  that  he  had  eventually  had  to  be 
slung  and  carried  as  far  as  the  river.  Even  so, 
there  had  been  the  peq^etual  dread  of  the  agon- 
ising jerk  if  one  of  his  bearers  stumbled  over  a 
stone,  or  stepped  unexpectedly  into  a  rut. 
And  to  all  this  he  was  so  soon  returning.  And 
quite  right,  too.  No  man  should  glide  through 
life  on  cushioned  tyres.  For  a  woman,  it  was 
quite  otherwise.  Her  womanliood  constituted  a 
sufficncnt  handicap,  without  any  roughness  or 
hardship  Ixing  allowed  to  come  her  way.  He 
liked  to  know  that  Diana  would  always — literally 
and  mctaphoriciUly  -glide  through  life  in  a  noise- 


66         The  Following  of  the  Star 

less  Napier.  This  method  of  progression  need  be 
no  hindrance  to  her  following  of  the  star. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  In  ten  minutes  they 
would  reach  Riverscourt. 

He  switched  off  the  lights,  and  at  once  the 
flying  trees  and  hedges  became  visible  in  the 
pale  moonHght.  He  enjoyed  watching  them  as 
they  whirled  past.  The  great  car  bounded  silently 
along  the  road,  sounding  a  warning  note  upon  the 
horn,  if  the  distant  light  of  any  cart  or  carriage 
came  in  sight  ahead  of  them;  but  passing  it,  and 
speeding  on  in  the  snowy  darkness,  before  David 
had  had  time  to  look  out  and  see  what  manner  of 
vehicle  it  was. 

They  rushed  through  Httle  villages,  the  cottage 
windows  bright  with  seasonable  festivity.  In 
one  of  them  David  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  Christ- 
mas-tree, decked  with  shining  candles,  and  sui- 
rounded  by  the  curly  heads  of  happy  Uttle  child- 
ren. It  was  many  years  since  he  had  seen  a 
Christmas-tree.  It  brought  wistful  thoughts  of 
home  and  boyhood's  days.  The  first  Christmas- 
tree  he  could  remember  had  yielded  to  his  en- 
raptured hands  a  wooden  popgun,  which  expelled 
a  cork  with  great  force  and  a  terrifying  sound, 
sufficiently  loud  to  make  all  grown-up  people 
iump,  if  it  was  done  exactly  behind  their  heads, 


The  Noiseless  Napier  67 

when  they  were  unaware  of  its  near  vicinity. 
This  effect  upon  grown-ups,  produced  by  his 
own  popgun,  had  given  him  a  sense  of  power 
which  was  limitless;  until  the  sudden  forcible 
confiscation  of  the  popgun  had  set  thereto  an 
unexpected  limit.  He  then  mentioned  it  as  a 
flute,  and  asked  for  it  back;  pointing  out  that  its 
popgun  propensities  were  a  mere  accident;  its 
real  nature  was  to  be  a  flute.  He  received  it 
back  as  a  flute,  upon  condition  that  it  should 
not  immediately  accidentally  develop  again  into 
a  popgim.  He  spent  the  remainder  of  that  day 
blowing  blissfully  into  the  eight  holes  punched  in 
the  strip  of  red  wood  gummed  to  the  side  of  the 
popgun.  The  resultant  sounds  were  melancholy 
and  fitful  to  a  degree;  and  it  is  doubtful  which 
was  the  greater  trial  to  the  nerves  of  the  grown- 
ups, the  sudden  explosion  of  the  popgun,  or  the 
long  drawn  out  piping  of  the  flute.  An\'way 
when  his  treasure  suddenly  and  unaccountably 
disappeared,  they  assisted  his  tearful  search  in  a 
half-hearted  sort  of  way,  and  when  eventually 
his  unaided  efforts  discovered  it,  carefully  con- 
cealed in  one  of  their  own  wardrobes,  his  infantine 
faith  in  the  sincerity  of  adult  human  nature  had 
received  its  first  rude  shock. 

David  lay  back  in  the  motor  and   wondered 


68         The  Following  of  the  Star 

whether  life  would  ever  hold  for  him  a  scene  so 
enchanting  as  that  first  Christmas-tree,  or  a  gift 
so  priceless  as  that  popgun-flute. 

The  motor  sped  through  the  old-world  town  of 
Riversmead,  scarcely  slacking  speed,  for  the 
streets  were  clear;  all  its  inhabitants  were  indoors, 
merry-making;  and  the  one  policeman  they 
passed,  saluted.  Diana's  car  was  well-known  and 
respected. 

Then  in  at  gr^at  iron  gates,  standing  wide,  and 
up  an  avenue  of  stately  beeches,  coming  to  sudden 
pause  before  the  portico  of  a  large  stone  house, 
gay  with  lighted  windows. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DAVID  MAKES  FRIENDS  WITH  "  CHAPPIE  " 

THE  door  into  the  great  hall  opened  as  David 
stepped  out  of  the  motor.  A  footman  took 
his  overcoat,  and  he  found  himself  following  an 
elderly  butler  across  the  spacious  hall  toward  a 
door,  which  he  flung  open,  announcing  in  con- 
fidential tones:  "The  Reverend  David  Rivers"; 
then  stood  aside,  that  David  might  enter. 

David  had  already  been  looking  right  and  left 
for  Chappie;  and,  even  as  he  walked  into  the 
drawing-room,  he  had  a  seductive  whistle  ready 
in  case  the  poodle  came  to  meet  liim,  before  he 
could  reach  Diana's  friendly  hand. 

But  neither  Diana  nor  the  poodle  were  in  the 
drawing-room. 

Instead,  on  a  large  sofa,  at  right  angles  with  the 

fireplace,  in  the  midst  of  heaped  up  cushions,  sat  a 

very  plump  elderly  lady,  of  haughty  mien,  clad  in 

claret-coloured  velvet,  a  nodding  ornament  in  her 

white  hair,  and  much  jewellery  on  her  fat  neck.    She 

raised  a  lorgnon,  on  a  long  tortoiscshell  handle,  and 

looked  tlirough  it  at  David  as  he  advanced  toward 

her. 

69 


70         The  Following  of  the  Star 

There  was  such  awe-inspiring  majesty  in  the 
action,  that  David  felt  certain  she  must  be,  at 
the  very  least,  a  duchess. 

He  seemed  to  be  hours  in  reaching  the  sofa. 
It  was  like  one  of  those  long  walks  taken  in 
dreams,  covering  miles,  yet  only  advancing  yards ; 
and  as  he  walked  his  clerical  jacket  grew  shorter, 
and  his  boots  more  patently  not  patent  leather. 

Wlien,  at  last,  he  reached  the  hearth-rug — no- 
thing happened.  The  plump  lady  had,  apparently, 
no  disengaged  hand;  one  held  the  lorgnon;  the 
other,  a  large  feather  fan. 

"D'y  do?"  she  said,  in  a  rather  husky  voice. 
"  I  conclude  you  are  Diana's  missionary. " 

This  was  an  almost  impossible  remark  to  answer. 
David  was  not  Diana's  missionary;  yet  he  was,  un- 
doubtedly,  the  missionary  Diana  had  asked  to  dinner. 

In  his  embarrassment  he  held  his  warm  hands  to 
the  blaze  of  the  log-fire,  and  said:  "What  a  beau- 
tiful Christmas-day ! " 

The  plump  lady  ignored  the  remark.  She 
declined  to  recognise  anything  in  common  be- 
tween her  Christmas-day  and  David's. 

"Where  is  your  sphere  of  work?"  she  demanded, 
hoarsely. 

"Central  Africa,"  replied  David,  in  a  meek 
voice,  devoutly  wishing  himself  back  there. 


David  Makes  Friends  with  "Chappie  "  71 

At  that  moment  the  door  burst  open,  by  reason 
of  a  bump  against  it,  and  a  black  poodle  trotted  irt, 
identical  with  the  dog  of  David's  imagining,  except- 
ing that  its  tufts  were  tied  up  with  red  ribbon, 

David  whistled  joyfully.  "Hullo,  Chappie!" 
he  said.     "Come  here,  old  fellow." 

The  poodle  paused,  surprised,  and  looked  at 
him;  one  fore-paw  uplifted. 

The  plunrp  lady  made  an  inarticulate  sound, 
and  dropped  her  lorgnon. 

But  David  felt  sure  of  his  ground.  "Come 
on,  Chappie,"  he  said.     "Let's  be  friends." 

The  poodle  trotted  up  and  shook  hands.  David 
bent  down  and  patted  his  beautiful  coat. 

Then  Diana  herself  swept  into  the  room.  "A 
thousand  pardons,  Cousin  David!"  she  cried.  "I 
should  have  been  down  to  receive  you.  But  Knox 
broke  all  records  and  did  the  distance  in  eighteen 
minutes!"  In  a  moment  her  hand  was  in  his;  her 
eyes  were  dancing  with  pleasure ;  her  smile  enveloped 
him  in  an  atmosphere  of  welcoming  friendliness. 

All  David's  shyness  left  him.  He  forgot  his 
terror  of  the  majestic  person  on  the  sofa.  "Oh, 
that  's  all  right!"  he  said.  "I  have  been  making 
friends  with  ChapjMc. " 

For  a  moment  even  Diana  looked  nonplu.s.sed. 
Then  she  laughed  gaily.     "I  ought  to  have  been 


72         The  Following  of  the  Star 

down  to  introduce  you  properly, "  she  said.  "Let 
me  do  so  now.  Cousin  David,  this  is  Mrs.  Mar- 
maduke  Vane.  Chappie  dear,  may  I  present 
to  you  my  cousin,  David  Rivers?" 

David  never  knew  why  the  floor  did  not  open 
and  swallow  him  up!  He  looked  helplessly  at 
Diana,  and  hopelessly  at  the  plump  lady  on  the 
sofa,  whose  wrathful  glance  withered  him. 

Diana  flew  to  the  rescue.  "N6w,  Chappie 
dear,"  she  said,  "the  motor  is  at  the  door,  and 
Marie  has  your  fur  cloak  in  the  hall.  Remember 
me  to  the  Brackenburys,  and  don't  feel  obliged 
to  come  away  early  if  you  are  enjoying  the  games 
after  dinner.  The  brougham  will  call  for  you  at 
eleven;  but  James  can  put  up,  and  come  round 
when  you  send  for  him.  If  I  have  gone  up  when 
you  return,  we  shall  meet  at  breakfast."  She  helped 
the  plump  lady  to  her  feet,  and  took  her  to 
the  door.  "Good-bye,  dear;  and  have  a  good 
time." 

She  closed  the  door,  and  came  back  to  David, 
standing  petrified  on  the  hearthrug. 

"Mrs.  Vane  is  my  chaperon,"  she  explained. 
"That  is  why  I  call  her  'Chappie.'  But— tell 
me,  Cousin  David;  do  you  always  call  elderly 
ladies  by  their  rather  private  pet-names,  in  the 
first  moments  of  making  their  acquaintance?" 


David  Makes  Friends  with  "Chappie"  73 

"Heaven  help  me!"  said  poor  David,  ruefully. 
"I  thought  'Chappie'  was  the  poodle." 

Diana's  peals  of  laughter  must  have  reached  the 
irate  lady  in  the  hall.  She  sank  on  to  the  sofa, 
and  buried  her  golden  head  in  the  cushions. 

"Oh,  Cousin  David!"  she  said.  "I  always 
knew  you  were  unlike  anybody  else.  Did  you 
see  the  concentrated  fury  in  Chappie's  eye? 
And  shall  we  improve  matters  by  explaining  that 
you  thought  she  was  the  poodle?  Oh,  talk  of 
something  else,  or  I  shall  suffocate!" 

"But  you  said:  'There  will  only  be  myself 
and  Chappie;  and  Chappie  doesn't  count,'  "  ex- 
plained David.  "If  that  was  'Chappie,'  she 
counts  a  lot.  She  looked  me  up  and  dowTi,  until 
I  felt  positively  cheap;  and  she  asked  mc  whether 
I  was  your  missionary'.  I  made  sure  she  was  a 
duchess,  at  the  very  least." 

"That  only  shows  how  very  little  experience 
you  have  had  of  duchesses,  Cousin  David.  If 
Chappie  had  really  l>ccn  a  duchess,  she  would 
have  made  you  feel  at  home  in  a  moment,  and  I 
should  have  found  you  seated  beside  her  on  the 
sofa  talking  as  happily  as  if  you  had  known  Ikt 
for  years.  Chappie  has  a  presence,  I  admit; 
and  a  ducal  air:  which  is  partly  why  I  keep  her 
on  as  chaf^cron.     Rut  she  says:    '  D 'y  do,'  and 


74         The  Following  of  the  Star 

looks  down  her  nose  at  you  in  that  critical  man- 
ner, because  her  father  was  only  a  doctor  in  a  small 
provincial  town. " 

"My  father  was  a  doctor  in  a  little  country 
village,"  said  David,  quickly,  "yet  I  hope  I 
don't  look  down  my  nose  at  people." 

"Ah,"  said  Diana,  "but  then  you  are  a  man, 
and  no  foolish  friends  have  told  you  that  you 
look  Hke  a  duchess,  thus  tqming  your  poor  head. 
Chappie  is  a  kind  old  thing,  at  heart,  and  must 
have  attractive  qualities  of  sorts,  seeing  she  has 
been  married  no  less  than  three  times.  She  was 
my  governess,  years  ago,  before  her  first  marriage. 
And  when  Uncle  Falcon  died,  I  had  her  back 
as  chaperon;  partly  because  she  is  very  poor,  and 
couples  with  that  poverty  an  inordinate  love  of 
creature  comforts,  which  is  quite  pathetic;  partly 
because  she  makes  an  imposing  figure-head,  yet 
I  can  do  with  her  exactly  as  I  like.  How  would 
you  define  a  chaperon,  Cousin  David?" 

"We  don't  have  them  in  Central  Africa,  Miss 
Rivers." 

"Well,  a  chaperon  is  a  person  who  should  be 
seen  and  not  heard.  And  she  should  be  seen  by 
the  right  people;  not  by  those  she  is  chaperoning, 
but  by  the  tiresome  people  who  think  they  ought 
to    be    chaperoned;     My    good    Chappie    satis- 


David  Makes  Friends  with  "Chappie "  75 

factorfly  fulfils  these  conditions.  She  is,  to  all 
intents,  chaperoning  you  and  me,  this  evening; 
yet,  in  reality,  she  is  dining  vvith  friends  of  hers  in 
Riversmead;  thus  sparing  us  the  unnecessary 
restraint  of  her  presence,  and  the  undesirable 
infliction  of  her  quite  mindless  conversation." 

David  found  himself  v  ondering  whether  he 
ought  not  to  have  allow  1  Sarah  to  tell  him 
"one  or  two  things  alx^u'  Miss  Diana,"  before 
he  adventured  over  to  Riv  rscourt. 

At  that  moment  the  sU.id  butler  opened  wide 
the  door,  with  a  murmured  sentence  about  dinner. 

Diana  rose,  with  a  gentle  grace  and  dignity 
which  reminded  David  of  hi:j  Lady  of  Mystery's 
first  progress  up  Brarabledene  church;  and,  lay- 
ing her  hand  within  his  arm,  guided  him  to  the 
dining-room. 

A  small  round  table  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
great  oak-panclle<l  room.  It  gleamed  with  glass  and 
silver,  wax  candles  and  snowy  linen.  The  decora- 
tion was  Parma  violets  and  lilies  of  the  valley. 

David  sat  at  Diana's  right  hand,  and  when  she 
leaned  toward  hini  and  they  talked  in  low  voices, 
the  old  man  at  the  distant  sidelx>ard  could  not 
overhear  their  conversation. 

The  pocxlle  had  followed  them  to  the  dining- 


7^         The  Following  of  the  Star 

room,  and  lay  down  contentedly  in  front  of  the 
log-fire. 

Diana  was  wearing  perfectly  plain  white  satin. 
A  Medici  collar,  embroidered  with  pearis,  rose 
at  the  back  of  her  shapely  head.  She  wore 
violets  at  her  bosom,  and  a  dainty  wreath  of 
violets  in  her  hair.  Her  gown  in  front  was  cut 
square  and  low,  and  embroidered  with  pearls. 
On  the  whiteness  of  her  skin,  below  the  beautiful 
firm  neck,  sparkled  a  brilliant  diamond  star. 
David  hated  to  see  it  there;  he  could  hardly 
have  explained  why.  It  rose  and  fell  Hghtly, 
with  her  breathing.  When  she  laughed,  it  scin- 
tillated in  the  light  of  the  wax  candles.  It  fas- 
cinated David — the  sparkling  star,  on  the  soft 
flesh.  He  looked  at  it,  and  looked  away;  but 
again  it  drew  his  unwilling  eyes. 

He  tried  to  master  his  aversion.  Why  should  not 
Miss  Rivers  wear  a  diamond  star?  Why  should 
he,  David,  presume  to  dislike  to  see  a  star  so  worn? 

Before  they  reached  the  second  course,  Diana 
said  to  the  butler:  "Send  Marie  to  me." 

In  a  few  moments  her  French  maid,  in  simple 
black  attire,  with  softly  braided  hair,  stood  at  her 
elbow.  Diana,  still  talking  gaily  to  David,  lifted  both 
arms,  imclasped  the  thin  gold  chain  from  about 
her  neck,  and  handed  the  pendant  to  her  maid. 


David  Makes  Friends  with  "Chappie"  77 

*' Serrez-mot  fa,"  she  said,  carelessly. 

Then  she  turned  her  clear  eyes  on  David. 
"You  prefer  it  in  the  sky,"  she  said.  "I  quite 
agree  with  you.  A  woman's  flesh  savours  too 
much  of  the  world  and  the  devil,  to  be  a  resting- 
place  for  stars.  It  can  have  no  possible  connec- 
tion with  ideals." 

She  spoke  so  bitterly,  that  David's  tender 
heart  rose  up  in  arms. 

"True,  I  prefer  it  in  the  sk>', "  he  said,  "and 
I  prefer  it  not  of  diamonds.  But  I  do  not  like 
to  hear  you  speak  so  of — of  your  body.  It  seems 
to  me  too  perfectly  beautiful  to  be  thus  relegated 
to  a  lower  sphere;  not  because  it  is  not  flesh;  but 
because,  though  flesh,  it  clothes  a  radiant  soul. 
The  mortal  body  is  but  the  garment  of  the  im- 
mortal soul.  The  soul,  in  mounting,  lifts  the 
body  with  it." 

"I  do  not  agree  with  you,"  said  Diana.  "I 
loathe  bodies ;  my  own,  no  less  than  other  people's. 
And  how  little  we  know  of  our  souls.  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  shock  you,  Cousin  David,  but  a 
favourite  theory  of  mine  is:  that  only  a  certain 
number  of  people  have  any  souls  at  all.  I  have 
always  maintained  that  the  heathen  have  no 
souls." 

David's  deep  eyes  gleamed. 


7^         The  Following  of  the  Star 

"The  young  natives  of  Uganda,"  he  said, 
"sooner  than  give  up  their  new-found  faith, 
sooner  than  deny  the  Lord  Who  had  bought 
them,  walked  cahnly  to  the  stake,  and  were  slowly 
roasted  by  fire;  their  limbs,  while  they  yet  lived, 
being  hacked  off,  one  by  one,  and  thrown  into 
the  flames.  Their  holy  courage  never  failed; 
their  last  articulate  words  were  utterances  of 
faith  and  praise.  Surely  bodies  would  hardly  go 
through  so  much,  unless  souls — strong  immortal 
souls — dwelt  within  them." 

"True,"  said  Diana,  softly.  "Cousin  David, 
I  apologise.  And  I  wonder  how  many  of  us 
would  stand  such  a  soul- test  as  slow-fire.  I 
can't  quite  imagine  Chappie,  seated  on  a  grid- 
iron, singing  hymns!     Can  you?" 

"We  must  not  judge  another,"  said  David, 
rather  stiffly.  "Conditions  of  martyrdom,  pro- 
duced the  noble  army  of  martyrs.  Why  should 
not  Mrs.  Vane,  if  placed  in  those  conditions, 
rise  to  the  occasion.''" 

"I  am  certain  she  would,"  said  Diana.  "She 
would  rise  quite  rapidly, — if  the  occasion  were  a 
gridiron. " 

Much  against  his  will,  David  burst  out  laughing. 

Diana  leaned  her  chin  in  her  hands;  her  lumin- 
ous   grey    eyes    observed    him,    gravely.     Little 


David  Makes  Friends  with  "Chappie"  79 

dimples  of  enjo\Tnent  dented  either  cheek;  but 
her  tone  was  entirely  demure. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  a  prig,  Cousin  David," 
she  said,  gravely. 

"I  have  never  been  considered  one,"  replied 
David,  humbly.     "But,  if  you  say  so " 

"No,  no!"  cried  Diana.  "You  are  not  a  prig; 
and  I  know  I  am  flippant  beyond  words.  Have 
you  found  out  that  I  am  flippant,  Cousin  David?" 

"Yes, "  he  said,  gently.  " But  I  have  found  out 
something  besides  that." 

Her  eyes  challenged  him. 

"And  that  is ?" 

"That  you  take  refuge  in  flippancy,  Miss  RivTrs, 
when  you  want  to  hide  a  deeper  anxiety  and 
earnestness  of  soul  than  you  can  quite  understand, 
or  altogether  cope  with." 

"Really?  Then  you  must  explain  it  to  me, 
and  cope  with  it  for  me,  I  hope  our  Christmas 
dinner  has  come  up  to  tlie  dinner  of  Sarah's 
intentions.  Have  another  pear;  or  some  more 
nuts?  I  did  not  order  crackers,  because  we  are 
both  grown  up,  and  we  should  look  so  foolish  in 
paf)er  caps;  and  yet,  if  we  had  had  them,  we 
could  not  have  resisttxl  putting  them  on.  Don't 
you  know,  at  children's  parties,  the  way  in  which 
grown-ujis    seize    ujxjn    the   most     autre  of    tlie 


8o         The  Following  of  the  Star 

coloured  head-gear,  don  them,  in  a  moment  of 
gay  abandonment,  and — forget  them!  I  can  re- 
member now,  the  dehght,  after  one  of  the  Christ- 
mas parties  in  my  childhood,  of  seeing  Chappie  go 
gravely  in  to  say  good-night  to  grandpapa,  com- 
pletely unconscious  of  a  Glengarry  bonnet,  tilted 
waggishly  on  one  side,  or,  on  another  occasion,  of 
a  tall  peaked  fool's  cap,  perched  on  her  frizzled 
'transformation'.  Oh,  to  be  a  little  child  again, 
each  Christmas-day!  Yet  here  am  I — twenty- 
eight!  How  old  are  you.  Cousin  David?  .  .  . 
Twenty-nine?  Well,  I  am  glad  you  are  not 
quite  thirty.  Being  in  another  decade  would 
have  been  like  being  in  a  cassock.  .  .  .  Why  a 
cassock?  How  dense  you  are,  my  reverend 
cousin!  My  mildest  jokes  require  explaining. 
Why  because  it  would  have  removed  you  so  far 
away,  and  I  want  you  quite  near  this  evening, 
not  perched  in  a  distant  pulpit!  You  cannot 
really  help  me,  unless  you  fully  sympathise  and 
understand.  And  I  am  in  such  sore  straits, 
Cousin  David,  that  I  look  upon  myself  as  a  drown- 
ing man — why  do  we  always  say  'drowning 
man'  as  if  there  never  were  any  drowning  women? 
— about  to  sink  for  the  third  time;  and  you  as  the 
rop2,  which  constitutes  my  only  hope  of  safety. 
Let  us  go  to  the  drawing-room." 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE   TOUCH   OF   POWER 


A  S  they  passed  into  the  drawing-room, 
^*^  David's  eye  fell  on  a  grand  piano,  in 
black  ebony  case,  to  the  left  of  the  door- 
way. 

"Oh!"  said  David,  and  stopped  short. 

"Does  that  tempt  you?"  asked  Diana.  "Yes; 
I  might  have  known  you  were  full  of  music. 
Your  suilcrings,  over  the  performances  of  the 
Bramblcdene  choir,  were  more  patent  than  you 
rcalisc-d." 

David's    fingers    were    working   eagerly. 

"I  so  rarely  get  the  chance  of  a  piano,"  he  said, 
"Like  cha[x;ron6,"  we  don't  have  them  in  Central 
Africa.  I  went  witliout  all  manner  of  things 
to  be  able  to  aflonl  one  in  my  rooms  at  col- 
lege; but,  since  then— Is  it  a  Bechstcin,  or 
what?" 

6  8l 


82         The  Following  of  the  Star 

"I  really  do  not  know,"  laughed  Diana.  "It 
is  an  article  of  furniture  I  do  not  use.  Once  a 
quarter,  it  lifts  up  its  voice,  poor  dear,  when  a 
sleek  person  with  a  key  of  his  own,  arrives  un- 
expectedly, asking  for  a  duster,  and  announcing 
that  he  has  come  to  tune  it.  He  usually  turns 
up  when  I  have  a  luncheon  party.  Occasionally 
when  Chappie  is  feeling  low,  and  dwelling  on  the 
departed  Marmaduke,  she  feels  moved  to  play 
'Home,  Sweet  Home';  but  when  Chappie  plays 
'Home,  Sweet  Home'  you  instantly  discover  that 
'there's  no  place  like' — being  out;  and,  be  it  ever 
so  cheerless,  you  catch  up  a  hat,  and  flee!  You 
may  carry  off  the  piano  to  Africa,  if  you  will. 
Cousin  David.  And,  meanwhile,  see  how  you 
like  it  now,  while  I  try  to  collect  my  ideas,  and 
consider  how  best  to  lay  my  difficulties  before 
you." 

She  moved  across  the  long  room,  to  the  fire- 
place, drew  forward  a  low  chair,  turning  it  so  as 
to  face  the  distant  piano. 

David,  tingling  with  anticipation,  opened  the 
instrument    with    reverent    care. 

"It  is  a  Bechstein,"  he  said;  then  took 
his  seat;  pausing  a  moment,  his  hands 
upon  his  knees,  his  dark  head  bent  over  the 
keys. 


The  Touch  of  Power  83 

Diana,  watching  him,  laughed  in  her  heart. 

"What  an  infant  it  is,  in  some  ways," 
she  thought.  "I  do  beheve  he  is  saying: 
'For  what  we  are  about  to  receive'!"  But, 
in  another  minute  her  laughter  ceased.  She 
was  receiving  more  than  she  had  expected. 
David  had  laid  his  hands  upon  the  keys; 
and,  straightway,  the  room  was  filled  with 
music. 

It  did  not  seem  to  come  from  the  piano.  It 
did  not  appear  to  have  any  special  connection  -with 
David.  It  came  chiefly  from  an  unseen  purjDle 
sky  overhead;  not  the  murky  darkness  of  an 
English  winter,  but  the  clear  over-arching 
heavens  of  the  Eastern  desert — expansive,  vast, 
fathomless. 

Beneath  it,  rode  a  cavalcade  of  travellers — 
anxious,  perplexed,  uncertain.  She  could  hear 
the  soft  thud  of  the  camels'  feet  upon  the  sand, 
and  sec  the  slow  swaying,  back  and  forth,  of  the 
mysterious  ridcTS. 

Suddenly  outshone  a  star, — clear,  luminous, 
divine;  so  brilliant,  so  uncxf)ectcd,  that  the  listener 
by  the  firci)Iacc  said,  "Oh!" — then  laid  her  hand 
over  her  trenil^ling  lips. 

But  David  had  forgotten  her.  His  eyes  were 
shining;  his  thin  face,   aglow. 


84         The  Following  of  the  Star 

Now  all  was  peace  and  certainty.  They 
travelled  on.  They  reached  Jerusalem.  The 
minor  key  of  doubt  and  disappointment  crept 
in  again.  Then,  once  more,  shone  the  star. 
They  arrived  at  Bethlehem.  In  chords  of  royal 
harmony  they  found  the  King.  0  worship  the 
Lord  in  the  beauty  of  holiness! 
-  Diana's  face  sank  into  her  clasped  hands. 
The  firelight  played  upon  her  golden  hair. 

She  knew,  now,  just  how  far  she  had  wan- 
dered from  the  one  true  Light;  just  how  poor 
had  been  her  response  to  the  eternal  love 
which  brought  the  Lord  of  glory  to  the  man- 
ger of  Bethlehem;  to  the  village  home  at  Naz- 
areth; to  the  cross  of  Calvary.  The  love  of 
Christ  had  not  constrained  her.  She  had  lived 
for  self.  Her  heart  had  grown  hard  and  un- 
responsive. 

And  now,  in  tenderest,  reverent  melody, 
the  precious  gifts  were  being  offered — gold, 
frankincense,  and  myrrh.  But,  what  had 
she  to  offer?  Her  gold  could  hardly  be 
accepted  while  she  withheld  herself.  Yet 
how  could  love  awaken  in  a  heart  so  dead, 
so  filled  with  worldly  scorn  and  unbe- 
Hef? 

The  music  had  changed.     It  no  longer  came  from 


The  Touch  of  Power  85 

unseen  skies,  or  ranged  back  into  past  scenes,  and 
ancient  histor>\  It  centred  in  David,  and  the 
piano. 

He  was  playing  a  theme  so  simple  and  so  rest- 
ful, that  it  stole  into  Diana's  heart,  bringing  imtold 
hope  and  comfort.     At  length,  she  lifted  her  head. 

"What  are  you  playing,  now.  Cousin  David?" 
She  asked,   gently. 

David  hushed  the  air  into  a  whisper,  as  he 
answered:  "A  very  simple  setting,  of  my  own, 
to  those  wonderful  words,  'At  even,  e'er  the  sun 
was  set.'  You  know  them?  The  old  tune  never 
contented  me.  It  was  so  apt  to  drag,  and  did 
not  lend  itself  to  the  crescendo  of  hope  and  thank- 
fulness required  by  the  glad  certainty  that  the 
need  of  each  waiting  heart  would  be  fully 
met,  nor  to  the  diminuendo  of  perfect  peace, 
enfolding  each  one  as  they  went  away.  So 
I  composed  this  simple  melody,  and  I  sing 
it,  by  myself,  out  in  the  African  forests  most 
nights,  when  my  day's  work  is  over.  But  it 
is  a  treat  to  be  able  to  play  it  here,  with  full 
harmonics," 

"Sing  it  to  me,"  said  Diana,  gently. 

And  at  once  David  began  to  sing,  to  his  own 
setting,  the  tender  words  of  the  old  evening  hymn. 
And  this  wa-s  what  he  sang: 


Holy  Star         *'A.t  trven  ert  the  snn  wus  ser 


^J^'/JlJ^di\:|'4H''A\'/' -^\'i 


W    a—»en    en  On    nM  wtu  tttf  ^Tbc     elck,    0       liord,   a  -  found.  S'iee-lajt 


earrrrrrr riTi'"  rr  ri^ 


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86 


The  Touch  of  Power  87 

At  even  ere  the  sun  was  set, 

The  sick,  O  Lord,  around  Thee  lay; 
Oh,  in  what  divers  pains  they  met! 

Oh,  with  what  joy  they  went  away ! 


2.  Once  more  't  is  eventide,  and  we 

Oppressed  with  various  ills  draw  near; 
What  if  Thy  Form  we  cannot  see? 
We  know  and  fed  that  Thou  art  here. 


3.  O  Saviour  Christ,  our  woes  dispel; 

For  some  are  sick,  and  some  are  sad; 
And  some  have  never  loved  Thee  well. 
And  some  have  lost  the  love  they  had; 

4.  And  some  have  found  the  world  is  vain. 

Yet  from  the  world  they  brcUc  not  free; 
And  some  have  friends  who  kivc  them  pain. 
Yet  have  not  sought  a  friend  in  Thee 


5.  And  none,  O  Lord,  have  perfect  rest, 
For  none  arc  wholly  free  from  sin; 
And  they  who  fain  would  serve  Thee  best, 
Arc  conscious  most  of  sin  within. 


6.  O  Savir/ur  Christ,  Thou  too  art  Man; 

Thou  hast  l>ccn  irouhlcl,  templed,  tried; 
Thy  kind  Init  warchinj;  xlancc  can  scan 
The  very  wounds  that  shame  would  hide 


Thy  touch  has  still  iu  ancient  power; 

No  word  from  Thcc  am  fruitless  fnll ; 
Hear  in  this  stjlcmn  rvcning  hour. 

And  in  Thy  merry  hcnl  us  all: 
OhoaJ  us  all! 


88         The  Following  of  the  Star 

The  pure  tenor  voice  rose  and  fell,  giving  full 
value  to  each  line.  As  he  reached  the  words: 
"And  some  have  never  loved  Thee  well,  And  some 
have  lost  the  love  they  had,"  Diana's  tears  fell, 
silently.  It  was  so  true — so  true.  She  had  never 
loved  Him  well;  and  she  had  lost  what  Httle 
faith,  what  little  hope,  she  had. 

Presently  David's  voice  arose  in  glad  tones  of 
certainty : 

"Thy  touch  has  still  its  ancient  power; 
No  word  from  Thee  can  fruitless  fall; 
Hear,  in  this  solemn  evening  hour, 
And,  in  Thy  mercy,  heal  us  all; 
Oh,  heal  us  all." 

The  last  notes  of  the  quiet  Amen,  died  away. 

David  closed  the  piano  softly;  rose,  and  walked 
over  to  the  fireplace.  He  did  not  look  at  Diana; 
he  did  not  speak  to  her.  He  knew,  instinctively, 
that  a  soul  in  travail  was  beside  him.  He  left 
her  to  his  Lord. 

After  a  while  she  whispered:  "If  only  one  were 
worthy.  If  only  one's  faith  were  strong  enough 
to  realise,  and  to  believe." 

"Our  worthiness  has  nothing  to  do  with  it," 
said  David,  without  looking  round.  "And  we 
need  not  worry  about  our  faith,  so  long  as — like 
the  tinv  mustard   seed — it  is,  however  small,  a 


The  Touch  of  Power  89 

living,  growing  thing.  The  whole  point  lies  in 
the  fact  of  the  power  of  His  touch;  the  changeless 
truth  of  His  unfailing  word;  the  fathomless 
ocean  of  His  love  and  mercy.  Look  away  from 
self;  fix  your  eyes  on  Him;  and  healing  comes." 

A  long  silence  followed  David's  words.  He 
stood  with  his  back  to  her,  watching  the  great 
logs  as  the  flames  played  round  them,  and  they 
sank  slowly,  one  by  one,  into  the  hot  ashes. 

At  last  he  heard   Diana's  voice. 

"Cousin  David,"  she  said,  "will  you  give  me 
your  blessing?" 

David  Rivers  turned.  He  was  young;  he  was 
humble;  he  was  ver>'  simple  in  his  faith;  but  he 
realised  the  value  and  responsibility  of  his  priestly 
office.  He  knew  it  had  been  given  him  as  "a 
service  of  gift." 

He  lifted  his  hands,  and  as  Diana  sank  to  her 
knees,  he  laid  them  reverently  upon  the  golden 
corona  of  her  hair. 

One  moment  of  silence.  Then  David's  voice, 
vibrant  with  emotion,  yet  deep,  tender,  and  un- 
faltering, pronounced  the  great  Triune  blessing, 
granted  to  desert  wanderers  of  old. 

"The  Lord  bless  thee  and  keep  thee; 
The  Lord  make  His  face  shine  upon  thee,  and 
bo  gracious  unto  thee; 


90         The  Following  of  the  Star 

The  Lord  lift  up  His  countenance  upon  thee, 
and  give  thee  peace." 

And  the  touch  of  power  which  Diana  felt  upon 
her  heart  and  life,  from  that  moment  onward,  was 
not  the  touch  of  David  Rivers. 


CHAPTER  Vlir 

THE  TEST  OF  THE  TRUE  HERALD 

A  S  David  sped  back  through  the  staiT>'  darkness, 
^^  he  was  filled  with  an  exultation  such  as  he 
had  never  before  experienced. 

He  had  always  held  that  every  immortal  soul 
was  of  equal  value  in  the  sight  of  God;  and  that 
the  bringing  into  the  kingdom  of  an  untutored 
African  savage,  was  of  as  much  importance,  in 
the  Divine  estimation,  as  the  conversion  of  the 
proudest  potentate  ruling  upon  any  Eiux)pean 
tJirone. 

But,  somehow,  he  realised  now  the  greatness  of 
the  victor\'  which  grace  had  won,  in  this  surrender 
of  Diana  to  the  constraining  toudi  of  his  Lord  and 
hers. 

It  was  one  thing  to  sec  light  dawn,  where  all  had 

hitherto  been  darkness;  but  quite  another  to  see 

the  dispersion  of  clouds  of  c>'nical  unbelief,  and 

the  surrender  of  a  strong  personality  to  the  faith 

9« 


92         The  Following  of  the  Star 

which  requires  the  simple  loving  obedience  of  a 
little  child:  for,  "whosoever  shall  not  receive  the 
kingdom  of  God  as  a  little  child,  he  shall  not  enter 
therein. " 

David  leaned  back  in  the  motor,  totally  imcon- 
scious  of  his  surroimdings,  as  he  realised  how  great 
a  conquest  for  his  King  was  this  winning  of  Diana. 
Her  immense  wealth,  her  influence,  her  position 
in  the  coimty,  her  undoubted  personal  charm, 
would  all  now  be  consecrated,  and  become  a  power 
on  the  side  of  right. 

He  foresaw  a  beautiful  future  before  her.  The 
very  fact  that  he  himself  was  so  soon  leaving  Eng- 
land, and  would  have  no  personal  share  in  that 
future,  made  his  joy  all  the  purer  because  of  its 
absolute  selflessness.  Like  the  Baptist  of  old, 
standing  on  the  banks  of  Jordan,  he  had  pointed 
to  the  passing  Christ,  saying:  "Behold!"  She 
had  beheld;  she  had  followed;  she  had  foimd  Him; 
and  the  messenger,  who  had  brought  about  this 
meeting,  might  depart.  He  was  needed  no  longer. 
The  Voice  had  done  its  work.  All  true  heralds 
of  the  King  rejoice  when  the  souls  they  have  striven 
to  win  turn  and  say:  "Now  we  believe,  not  be- 
cause of  thy  saying;  for  we  have  heard  Him 
ourselves,  and  know  that  this  is  indeed  the  Christ, 
the  Saviour  of  the  world."     This  test  was  now 


The  Test  of  the  True  Herald  93 

David's;  and  being  a  true  herald,  he  did  not  fail 
before  it. 

When  Diana  had  risen  from  her  knees,  she  had 
turned  to  him  and  said,  gently:  "Cousin  David,  do 
you  mind  if  I  order  the  motor  now?  I  could  not 
speak  or  think  to-night  of  other  things;  and  I  just 
feel  I  want  to  be  alone." 

During  the  few  moments  which  intervened  be- 
fore the  car  was  announced,  they  sat  in  silence,  one 
on  either  side  of  the  fireplace.  There  was  a  radi- 
ance of  joy  on  both  young  faces,  which  anyone, 
entering  unexpectedly,  would  doubtless  have  put 
down  to  a  vcn>'  different  cause.  Diana  was  not 
thinking  at  all  of  David ;  and  David  was  thinking 
less  of  Diana  than  of  the  Lord  Whose  presence 
with  them,  in  that  evening  hour,  had  made  of  it  a 
time  of  healing  and  of  power. 
As  he  rose  to  go,  she  put  her  hand  in  his. 
"Cousin  David,"  she  said,  "more  than  ever 
now,  I  need  your  counsel  and  your  help.  If  I 
send  over,  just  before  one  o'clock,  can  you  come 
to  luncheon  to-morrow,  and  afterwards  we 
might  have  the  talk  which  I  cannot  manage 
to-night?" 

David  agreo<l.  The  weddings  at  which  he  had 
to  ofTiciate  were  at  eleven  o'clock.  "I  will  be 
readv,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  come.     T  am  afraid 


94         The  Following  of  the  Star 

my  advice  is  not  worth  much;  but,  such  as  it  is, 
it  is  altogether  at  your  service. " 

"Good-night,  Cousin  David,"  she  said,  "and 
God  bless  you !  Does  n't  it  say  somewhere  in  the 
Bible:  'They  that  turn  many  to  righteousness 
shall  shine  as  the  stars  for  ever  and  ever'?" 

David  now  remembered  this  farewell  remark  of 
Diana's,  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  Rectory 
gate,  looking  upward  to  the  clear  frosty  sky.  But 
the  idea  did  not  suit  his  mood. 

"Ah,  no,  my  Lord,"  he  said.  "Thou  art  the 
bright  and  morning  Star.  Why  should  I  want, 
for  myself,  any  glory  or  shining?  I  am  content 
forever  to  be  but  a  follower  of  the  Star. " 


CHAPTER  IX 

UNCLE   falcon's  WILL 

I  UNCIiEON  would  have  been  an  awlcw^ard 
*-^  affair,  owing  to  David's  nervous  awe  of  Mrs. 
Marmaduke  Vane  and  his  extreme  trepidation  in 
her  presence,  had  it  not  been  for  Diana's  tact 
and  vivacity. 

She  took  the  bull  by  the  horns,  explaining 
David's  mistake,  and  how  it  was  entirely  her  own 
fault  for  being  so  ambiguous  and  inconsequent  in 
her  speech — "as  you  have  told  me  from  my  infancy, 
dear  Chappie";  and  she  laughed  so  infectiously 
over  the  misunderstanding  and  over  the  picture 
she  drew  of  \xk>t  David's  dismay  and  horror,  that 
Mrs.  Marmaduke  Vane  laughed  als^j,  and  forgave 
David. 

"And  to  add  to  poor  Cousin  David's  confusion, 
he  had  made  sure,  at  first  sight,  that  you  were  at 
least  a  duchess,"  addc<l  Diana  tactfully;  "and 
they  don't  have  them  in  Central  Africa;  s<j  Cousin 
David  felt  very  shy.     Did  n't  you.  Cousin  David.'*" 

95 


96         The  Following  of  the  Star 

David  admitted  that  he  did;  and  Mrs.  Vane 
began  to  Hke  "Diana's  missionary." 

"I  have  often  noticed,"  pursued  Miss  Rivers, 
"that  the  very  people  who  are  the  most  brazen 
in  the  pulpit,  who  lean  over  the  side  and  read  your 
thoughts;  who  make  you  Hft  your  unwilling  eyes 
to  theirs,  responsive;  who  direct  the  flow  of  their 
eloquence  full  upon  any  unfortunate  person  who 
is  venturing  at  all  obviously  to  disagree — are  the 
very  people  who  are  most  apt  to  be  shy  in  private 
life.  You  should  see  my  Cousin  David  fling  chal- 
lenge and  proof  positive  at  a  narrow-minded  lady, 
with  an  indignant  rustle,  and  a  red  feather  in  her 
bonnet.  I  believe  her  husband  is  a  tenant-farmer 
of  mine.  I  intend  to  call,  in  order  to  discuss 
Cousin  David's  sermons  with  her.  I  shall  insist 
upon  her  showing  me  the  passage  in  her  Bible 
where  it  says  that  there  were  three  Wise  Men. " 

Then  Diana  drew  David  on  to  tell  of  his  African 
congregations,  of  the  weird  experiences  in  those 
wild  regions;  of  the  perils  of  the  jungle,  and  the 
deep  mystery  of  the  forest.  And  he  made  it  all 
sound  so  fascinating  and  delightful,  that  Mrs. 
Marmadiike  Vane  became  quite  expansive,  an- 
noimcing,  as  she  helped  herself  liberally  to  pdte-de- 
Joie-graSy  that  she  did  not  wonder  people  enjoyed 
being  missionaries. 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  97 

"You  should  volunteer,  Chappie  dear,"  said 
Diana.  "I  daresay  the  society  sends  out  ladies. 
Only — fancy,  if  you  came  back  as  thin  as  Cousin 
David!" 

In  the  drawing-room,  she  sent  him  to  the  piano; 
and  Mrs.  Vane  allowed  her  coffee  to  grow  cold 
while  she  listened  to  David's  music,  and  did  not 
ask  Diana  to  send  for  more,  until  David  left  the 
music  stool. 

Then  Diana  reminded  her  chaperon  of  an  engage- 
ment she  had  at  Eversleigh.  "The  motor  is 
ordered  at  half'past  two,  dear;  and  be  sure  you 
stay  to  tea.  Never  mind  if  they  don't  ask  you. 
Just  remain  until  tea  appears.  They  can  but  say : 
'Must  you  stay?  Can't  you  go?*  And  they 
won't  do  that,  because  they  are  inordinately  proud 
of  your  presence  in  their  abode. " 

Mrs.  Vane  rose  reluctantly,  expressing  regret 
that  she  had  unwittingly  made  this  engagement, 
and  murmuring  something  about  an  easy  postpone- 
ment by  telegram. 

But  Diana  was  firm.  Such  a  disappointment 
must  not  be  inflicted  upon  any  family  on  Bo.xing- 
day.     It  could  not  be  contemplated  for  a  moment. 

Mrs.  Marmaduke  Vane  took  David's  hand  in 
both  her  plump  ones,  and  patted  it,  kindly. 

"Gootl-l'Vi-.  my  dear  Mr.  Rivers,"  she  s^iid  with 
7 


98         The  Following  of  the  Star 

empressement.  "And  I  hope  you  will  have  a  quite 
delightful  time  in  Central  Africa.  And  mind," 
she  added  archly,  "if  Diana  decides  to  come  out 
and  see  you  there,  I  shall  accompany  her." 

Honest  dismay  leapt  into  David's  eyes. 

"  It  is  no  place  for  women, "  he  said,  helplessly. 
Then  looked  at  Diana.  "I  assure  you.  Miss 
Rivers,  it  is  no  place  for  women. " 

"Never  fear,  Cousin  David,"  laughed  Diana. 
"You  have  fired  Mrs.  Vane  with  a  desire  to  rough 
it;  but  I  do  not  share  her  ardour,  and  she  could 
not  start  without  me.  Could  you,  Chappie  dear? 
Good-bye.     Have  a  good  time. " 

She  turned  to  the  fire,  with  an  air  of  dismissal, 
and  pushed  a  log  into  place  with  her  toe. 

David  opened  the  door,  waited  patiently  while 
Mrs.  Vane  hoarsely  whispered  final  farewell  pleas- 
antries ;  then  closed  it  behind  her  portly  back. 

When  he  returned  to  the  hearth-rug,  Diana 
was  still  standing  gazing  thoughtfully  into  the  fire, 
one  arm  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"Oh,  the  irony  of  it!"  she  said,  without  looking 
up.  "She  hopes  you  will  have  a  quite  delightful 
time;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you  are  going  out 
to  die!  Cousin  David,  do  you  really  expect  never 
to  return?" 

"In  all  probability,"  said  David,  "I  shall  never 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  99 

see  England  again.  They  tell  me  I  cannot  possibly 
live  through  another  five  years  out  there.  They 
think  two,  or  at  most  three,  will  see  me  through. 
WTio  can  tell?     I  shall  be  grateful  for  three. " 

"  Do  you  consider  it  right,  deliberately  to  sacri- 
fice a  young  life,  and  a  useful  Hfe,  by  returning  to  a 
place  which  you  know  must  cost  that  life?  WHiy 
not  seek  another  sphere?" 

"Because,"  said  David,  quietly,  "my  call  is 
there.  Some  one  must  go;  and  who  better  than 
one  who  has  absolutely  no  home- ties;  none  to  miss 
or  mourn  him,  but  the  people  for  whom  he  gives 
his  life?  It  is  all  I  have  to  give.  I  give  it 
gladly." 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  said  Diana,  "just  as  we  sat 
last  night,  in  those  quiet  moments  before  the  motor 
came  round.  Only  now,  I  can  talk — and,  oh.  Cou- 
sin David,  I  have  so  much  to  say!  But  first  I 
want  you  to  tell  me,  if  you  will,  all  about  yourself. 
Begin  at  the  beginning.  Never  mind  how  long 
it  takes.  We  have  the  whole  afternoon  before  us, 
unless  you  have  anything  to  take  you  away  early. " 

She  motioned  him  U)  an  easy  chair,  and  herself 
sat  on  the  couch,  leaning  forward  in  her  favourite 
attitude,  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  her  chin  resting  in 
the  palm  of  htr  hand.  Ilcr  grey  eyes  searched 
his  face.     The  firelight  played  on  her  soft  hair. 


100       The  Following  of  the  Star 

"Begin  at  the  beginning,  Cousin  David,"  she 
said. 

"There  is  not  much  to  tell  of  my  beginnings," 
said  David,  simply.  "My  parents  married  late 
in  life.  I  was  their  only  child — the  son  of  their 
old  age.  My  home  was  always  a  little  heaven 
upon  earth.  They  were  not  well  off;  we  only  had 
what  my  father  earned  by  his  practice,  and  village 
people  are  apt  to  be  slack  about  paying  a  doctor's 
bills.  But  they  made  great  efforts  to  give  me  the 
best  possible  education;  and,  a  generous  friend 
coming  to  their  assistance,  I  was  able  to  go  to 
Oxford."  His  eyes  glowed.  "I  wish  you  could 
know  all  that  that  means,  "he  said;  "being  able 
to  go  to  Oxford." 

"I  can  imagine  what  it  would  mean — to  you,'' 
said  Diana. 

"  While  I  was  at  Oxford,  I  decided  to  be  ordained ; 
and,  almost  immediately  after  that  decision,  the 
call  came,  I  held  a  London  curacy  for  one  year, 
but,  as  soon  as  I  was  priested,  by  special  leave  from 
my  Bishop,  and  arrangement  with  my  Vicar,  I 
went  out  to  Africa.  During  the  year  I  was  work- 
ing in  London,  I  lost  both  my  father  and  my 
mother." 

"Ah,  poor  boy!"  murmured  Diana,  "Then 
you  had  no  one." 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  loi 

David  hesitated.     "There  was  Amy,"  he  said. 

Diana's  eyelids  flickered.  "Oh,  there  was  'Amy.' 
That  might  mean  a  good  deal.  Did  'Amy'  want 
to  go  out  to  Central  Africa?" 

"No,"  said  David;  "nor  would  I  have  dreamed 
of  taking  her  there.  Amy  and  I  had  lived  in  the 
same  village  all  our  lives.  "We  had  been  babies 
together.  Our  mothers  had  wheeled  us  out  in  a 
double  pram.  We  were  just  brother  and  sister, 
imtil  I  went  to  college;  and  then  we  thought  we 
were  going  to  be — more.  But,  when  the  call 
came,  I  knew  it  must  mean  celibacy.  No  man 
could  take  a  woman  to  such  places.  I  knew,  if 
I  accepted,  I  must  give  up  Amy.  I  dreaded  tell- 
ing her.  But,  when  at  last  I  plucked  up  courage 
and  told  her,  Amy  did  not  mind  ver>'  much,  be- 
cause a  gentleman-farmer  in  the  neighbourhood 
was  wanting  to  marr>'  her.  Amy  was  ver>'  pretty. 
They  were  married  just  Ix'fore  I  sailed.  Amy 
wanted  me  to  marry  them.  But  I  could  not  do 
that." 

Diana  looked  at  the  thin  sensitive  face. 
"No,"  she  said;  "you  could  not  do  that." 
"I  thought  it  best  not  to  corresjwnd  during  the 
five  years,"  continue<l  David,  "considering  what 
wc  had  been  to  one  another.     But  when  I  was  in- 
valided home,  I  lookc<i  forward,  in  the  eager  s/jtI 


102        The  Following  of  the  Star 

of  way  you  do  when  you  are  very  weak,  to  seeing 
Amy  again.  I  had  no  one  else.  As  soon  as  I 
could  manage  the  journey,  I  went  down — home; 
and — and  called  at  Amy's  house.  I  asked  for 
Mrs.  Robert  Carsdale — ^Amy's  married  name.  A 
very  masculine  noisy  lady,  whom  I  had  never  seen 
before,  walked  into  the  room  where  I  stood  await- 
ing Amy.  She  had  just  come  in  from  hunting, 
and  flicked  her  boot  with  her  hunting-crop  as  she 
asked  me  what  I  wanted.  I  said:  "I  have  called 
to  see  Mrs.  Robert  Carsdale."  She  said:  "Well? 
I  am  Mrs.  Robert  Carsdale,"  and  stared  at  m.e, 
in  astonishment. 

"So  I  asked  for  Amy.  She  told  me  where  to — 
to  find  Amy,  and  opened  the  hall  door.  Amy  had 
been  dead  three  years.  Robert  Carsdale  had 
married  again.  I  found  Amy's  grave,  in  our 
little  churchyard,  quite  near  my  own  parents'. 
Also  the  grave  of  her  baby  boy.  It  was  all  that 
was  left  of  Amy;  and,  do  you  know,  she  had  named 
her  little  son  '  David. ' " 

"Oh,  you  poor  boy!"  said  Diana.  "You  poor, 
poor  boy!  But,  do  you  know,  I  think  Amy  in 
heaven  was  better  for  you,  than  Amy  on  earth.  I 
don't  hold  with  marriage.  Had  you  cared  very 
much?" 

"Yes,  I  had  cared  a  good  deal,"  replied  David, 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  103 

in  a  low  voice;  "but  as  a  boy  cares,  I  think.  Not 
as  I  should  imagine  a  man  would  care,  A  man 
who  really  cared  could  not  have  left  her  to  another 
man,  could  he?" 

"I  don't  hold  with  matrimony,"  said  Diana 
again;   and   she   said   it    with    forceful  emphasis. 

"Nor  do  I,"  said  David;  "and  my  people  out 
in  ^Vfrica  are  all  the  family  I  shall  ever  know.  I 
faced  that  out,  when  I  accepted  the  call.  No  man 
has  a  right  to  allow  a  woman  to  face  nameless 
horrors  and  hardships,  or  to  make  a  home  in  a 
climate  where  little  children  cannot  Uve. " 

"Ah,  I  do  so  agre^  with  you!"  cried  Diana.  "  I 
once  attended  a  missionar>'  meeting  where  a  re- 
turned missionary  from  India  told  us  how  she 
and  her  husband  had  had  to  send  their  httle  daugh- 
ter home  to  England  when  she  was  seven  years  old, 
and  had  not  seen  her  again  until  she  was  sixteen. 
'When  we  returned  to  England,'  she  told  the 
meeting,  'I  should  not  have  known  my  daughter 
had  I  passed  her  in  the  street!'  And  every  one 
thought  it  so  pathetic,  and  so  devoted.  But  it 
seemed  to  me  false  jiathos,  and  unpardonable 
neglect  of  primary  duties.  Who  could  take  that 
mother's  place  to  that  little  child  of  seven  years  old  ? 
And,  from  the  age  of  seven  to  sixteen.  Imw  a  ynX 
needs  her  own  mother.     Wliat  call  could  come  be- 


104        The  Following  of  the  Star 

fore  that  first  call — ^her  own  little  child's  need  of 
her?  And  what  do  you  think  that  missionary- 
lady's  work  had  been?  Managing  a  school  for 
heathen  children!  All  the  time  she  was  giving  an 
account  of  these  children  of  other  people  and  her 
work  among  them,  I  felt  like  calling  out :  '  How 
about  your  own?'  Cousin  David,  I  didn't  put 
a  halfpenny  in  the  plate;  and  I  have  hated  mis- 
sionaries ever  since!" 

"That  is  not  quite  just,"  said  David.  "But 
I  do  most  certainly  agree  with  you,  that  first 
claims  should  come  first.  And  therefore,  a  man 
who  feels  called  to  labour  where  wife  and  children 
could  not  live,  must  forego  these  tender  ties,  and 
consider  himself  pledged  to  celibacy." 

"It  is  the  better  part,"  said  Diana. 

David  made  no  answer.  It  had  not  struck  him 
in  that  light  before.  He  had  always  thought  he 
was  foregoing  an  unknown  but  an  undoubted  joy. 

A  silence  fell  between  them.  He  was  pondering 
her  last  remark ;  she  was  considering  him,  and  try- 
ing to  fathom  how  much  sincerity  of  conviction, 
strength  of  will,  and  tenacity  of  purpose,  lay  behind 
that  gentle  manner,  and  straightforward  simplicity 
of  character. 

Diana  was  a  fearless  cross-country  rider.  She 
never  funked  a  fence,  nor  walked  a  disappointed 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  105 

horse  along,  in  search  of  a  gap  or  a  gate.  But 
before  taking  a  high  jump  she  liked  to  know  what 
was  on  the  other  side.  So,  while  David  pondered 
Diana's  last  remark,  Diana  studied  David. 

At  length  she  said:  "Do  you  remember  my 
first  appearance  at  Brambledene  church,  on  a 
Sunday  evening,  about  five  weeks  ago?" 

Yes;  David  remembered. 

"  I  arrived  late, "  said  Diana.  "  I  walked  up  the 
church  to  blasts  of  psalmody  from  that  noisy 
choir." 

David  smiled.  "You  were  never  late  again," 
he  said."' 

"Mercy,  no!"  laughed  Diana.  "You  gave  one 
the  impression  of  being  the  sort  of  person  who 
might  hold  up  the  entire  service,  while  one  un- 
fortunate late-comer  hurried  abashed  into  her 
pew.  Are  many  parsons  so  acutely  conscious 
of  the  exact  deportment  of  each  member  of  their 
congregations?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  David.  "I  suppose 
the  keen  look-out  one  has  to  keep  for  unexpected 
and  sometimes  dangerous  happenings,  at  all  gather- 
ings of  our  poor  wild  i)eoplc,  has  trained  one  to 
it.  I  admit,  I  would  sooner  see  the  glitter  of  an 
African  spear  poi.sed  in  my  direction  from  behind  a 
tree  tnmk.  than  stc  Mrs.  Smith  nudge  her  hus- 


io6        The  Following  of  the  Star 

band,  in  obvious  disagreement  with  the  most  im- 
portant point  in  my  sermon." 

"Well,"  continued  Diana,  "I  came.  And  what 
do   you   think   brought   me?" 

David  had  no  suggestion  to  make  as  to  what  had 
brought  Diana, 

"Why,  after  you  had  come  down  for  an  inter- 
view with  my  godfather  and  spent  a  night  at  the 
Rectory,  I  motored  over  to  see  him,  just  before  he 
went  for  his  cure.  He  told  me  all  about  you; 
and,  among  other  things,  that  you  were  going, 
back  knowing  that  the  climate  out  there  could  only 
mean  for  you  a  very  few  years  of  life;  and  I  came 
to  church  because  I  wanted  to  see  a  man  whose 
religion  meant  more  to  him  than  even  life  itself — I, 
who  rated  life  and  health  as  highest  of  all  good; 
most  valuable  of  all  possessions. 

"I  came  to  see — wondering,  doubting,  incredu- 
lous. I  stayed  to  listen — troubled,  conscience- 
stricken,  perplexed.  First,  I  beHeved  in  you, 
Cousin  David.  Then  I  saw  the  Christ-Hfe  in  you. 
Then  I  longed  to  have  what  you  had — to  find  Him 
myself.  Yesterday,  He  found  me.  To-day,  I 
can  hiunbly,  trustfully  say:  'I  know  Whom  I  have 
believed,  and  am  persuaded  that  He  is  able  to  keep 
that  which  I  have  committed  unto  Him  against 
that  day.'    I  am  far  from  being  what  I  ought  to  be ; 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  107 

my  life  just  now  is  one  tangle  of  perplexities;  but 
the  darkness  is  over,  and  the  true  light  now  shine th. 
I  hope,  from  this  time  onward,  to  be  a  follower  of 
the  Star," 

"I  thank  God,"  said  David  Rivers. 

"And  now,"  continued  Diana,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments of  happy  silence,  "  I  am  going  to  burden  you. 
Cousin  David,  with  a  recital  of  my  difficulties;  and 
I  am  going  to  ask  your  advice.  Let  me  tell  you 
my  past  history,  as  shortly  as  possible. 

"This  dear  old  place  is  my  childhood's  home. 
My  earliest  recollection  is  of  living  here  with  my 
mother  and  my  grandfather.  My  father.  Captain 
Rivers,  who  was  heir  to  the  whole  property,  died 
when  I  was  three  years  old.  I  barely  remember 
him.  The  property  was  entailed  on  male  heirs, 
and  failing  my  father,  it  came  to  a  younger  brother 
of  my  grandfather,  a  great-uncle  of  mine,  a  cer- 
tain Falcon  Rivers,  who  had  fallen  out  with  most 
of  his  relations,  gone  to  live  in  America,  and  made 
a  large  fortune  out  there.  My  grandfather  and 
my  mother  never  spoke  of  Uncle  Falcon,  and  I 
rememlxT,  as  a  child,  having  the  instinctive  feeling 
that  even  to  think  of  Uncle  Falcon  was  an  insidi- 
ous form  of  sin.  It  therefore  had  its  attractions. 
I  quite  often  thought  of  Uncle  Falcon ! 

"Toward  the  close  of  his  life,  my  grandfather 


io8        The  Following  of  the  Star 

became  involved  in  money  difficulties.  Much  of 
the  estate  was  mortgaged.  I  was  too  young  and 
heedless  to  understand  details,  but  it  all  resulted 
in  this:  that  when  my  grandfather  died,  he  was  un- 
able to  leave  much  provision  for  my  mother,  or  for 
me.  We  had  to  turn  out  of  Riverscourt;  Uncle 
Falcon  was  returning  to  take  possession.  So  we 
went  to  live  in  town,  on  the  merest  pittance,  and 
in  what,  after  the  luxuries  to  which  I  had  always 
been  accustomed,  appeared  to  me  abject  poverty. 
I  was  then  nineteen.  My  mother,  who  had  been 
older  than  my  father,  was  over  fifty. 

"Then  followed  two  very  hard  years.  Uncle 
Falcon  wrote  to  my  mother ;  but  she  refused  to  see 
him,  or  to  have  any  communication  with  him. 
She  would  not  show  me  his  letter.  We  were  abso- 
lutely cut  off  from  the  old  home,  and  all  our  former 
surroundings.  Once  or  twice  we  heard,  in  rounda- 
bout ways,  how  much  Uncle  Falcon's  wealth  was 
doing  for  the  old  place.  Mortgages  were  all  paid 
off;  tumbled-down  cottages  were  being  rebuilt;  the 
farms  were  put  into  proper  order,  and  let  to  good 
tenants.  American  money  has  a  way  of  being 
useful,  even  in  proud  old  England. 

"Any  mention  of  all  this,  filled  my  mother  with 
an  extreme  bitterness,  to  which  I  had  not  then  the 
key,  and  which  I  completely  failed  to  understand. 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  109 

"One  morning,  at  breakfast,  she  received  an  en- 
velope, merely  containing  a  thin  slip  of  paper. 
Her  beautiful  face — my  mother  was  a  very  lovely 
woman — went,  as  they  say  in  story-books,  whiter 
than  the  table-cloth.  She  tore  the  paper  across, 
and  across  again,  and  flung  the  fragments  into 
the  fire.  They  missed  the  flames,  and  fluttered 
down  into  the  fender.  I  picked  them  up,  and, 
right  before  her,  pieced  them  together.  It  was  a 
cheque  from  Uncle  Falcon  for  a  thousand  pounds. 
*0h.  Mamma  dear!'  I  said.  I  was  so  tired  of 
running  after  omnibuses,  and  pretending  we  liked 
potted  meat  lunches. 

"She  snatched  the  fragments  out  of  my  fingers, 
and  dropped  them  into  the  heart  of  the  fire. 

"  'Anyway,  it  was  kind  of  Uncle  Falcon,'  I  said. 

"' Do  not  mention  his  name,'  cried  my  mother, 
with  white  lips;  and  I  cxiK'rienced  once  more  the 
fascination  of  the  belief,  which  had  been  mine  in 
childhood,  that  Uncle  Falcon,  and  the  Prince  of 
Darkness,  were  somehow  akin. 

"To  cut  a  long  story  short,  at  the  end  of  those 
two  hard  years,  my  mother  died.  A  close  friend 
of  ours  was  matron  in  the  Hospital  of  the  Holy  Star 
— ah,  yes,  how  curious!  I  had  forgotten  the  name 
— a  beautiful  little  hospital  in  the  Euston  Road, 
supported  by  private  contributions.    She  accepted 


no        The  Following  of  the  Star 

me  for  training.  I  foiind  the  work  interesting, 
and  soon  got  on.  You  may  have  difficulty  in  be- 
Heving  it,  Cousin  David,  but  I  make  a  quite  ex- 
cellent nurse.  I  studied  every  branch,  passed 
various  exams.,  looked  quite  professional  in  my 
uniform,  and  should  have  been  a  ward  Sister  before 
long — when  the  letter  came,  which  again  changed 
my  whole  life. 

" It  was  from  Uncle  Falcon!  He  had  kept  him- 
self informed  of  my  movements  through  our  old 
family  lawyer,  Mr.  Inglestry,  who,  during  those 
years,  had  never  lost  sight  of  poor  mamma,  nor  of 
me.  I  can  remember  Uncle  Falcon's  letter,  word 
for  word. 

"'My  Dear  Niece,*  he  wrote,  'I  am  told  you 
are  by  now  a  duly  qualified  hospital  nurse.  My 
body  is  in  excellent  health,  but  my  brain — which  I 
suppose  I  have  worked  pretty  strenuously — has 
partially  given  way;  with  the  result  that  my 
otherwise  healthy  body  is  more  or  less  helpless  on 
the  right  side.  My  doctor  teUs  me  I  must  have  a 
trained  nurse ;  not  in  constant  attendance — Heaven 
protect  the  poor  woman,  if  that  were  necessary! — 
but  somewhere  handy  in  the  house,  in  case  of  need. 

'"Now  why  should  I  be  tended  in  my  declining 
years,  by  a  stranger,  when  my  own  kith  and  kin  is 
competent  to  do  it?    And  why  should  I  bring  a 


.  Uncle  Falcon's  Will  iii 

stray  young  woman  tx)  this  beautiful  place,  when 
the  girl  whose  rightful  home  it  is,  might  feel  in- 
cUned  to  return  to  it? 

'"I  hear  from  old  \Miat's-his-name,  that  you  bear 
no  resemblance  whatever  to  your  father,  but  are 
the  image  of  what  your  mother  was,  at  your  age. 
That  being  the  case,  if  you  like  to  come  home,  my 
child,  I  will  make  your  life  as  pleasant  as  I  can, 
for  her  sake. 

"'Your  affectionate  unknown  uncle, 

"F.VLCON    Rivers.' 

"Well— I  went. 

"I  arrived  in  uniform,  not  sure  what  my  stand- 
ing was  to  be,  in  the  house,  but  thankful  to  be  back 
there,  on  any  terms,  and  irresistibly  attracted  by 
the  spell  of  Uncle  Falcon. 

"Our  own  old  butler  o^xincd  the  door  to  me.  I 
nearly  fell  upon  his  neck.  The  housekec|)er,  who 
had  known  me  from  infancy,  took  me  up  to  my 
room.  They  wept  anrl  laughed,  and  seemed  to 
look  upon  my  uniform  as  one  of  Miss  Diana's 
pranks — half  funny,  half  naughty.  Truth  to  tell, 
I  did  fcM;l  dressed  up,  wluii  I  found  myself  inside 
the  old  hall  again. 

"In  Lwenty-four  hours.  Cousin  David.  I  was 
installed  as  the  daughter  of  the  hou.se. 

"Of  Uncle  Falcon's  remarkable  jxirsonality.  there 


112        The  Following  of  the  Star 

is  not  time  to  tell  you  now.  We  took  to  each  other 
at  once,  and,  before  long,  he  felt  it  right  to  put 
away,  at  my  request,  the  one  possible  cause  of  mis- 
understanding there  might  have  been  between  us, 
by  telling  me  the  true  reason  of  his  alienation  from 
home,  and  his  breach  with  my  grandfather  and 
my  parents. 

"Uncle  Falcon  was  ten  years  yoimger  than  my 
grandfather.  My  mother,  then  a  very  lovely 
woman,  in  the  perfection  of  her  beauty,  was  ten 
years  older  than  my  father,  a  young  subaltern  just 
entering  the  army.  My  mother  was  engaged  to 
Uncle  Falcon,  who  loved  her  with  an  intensity 
of  devotion,  such  as  only  a  nature  strong,  fiery, 
rugged  as  his,  could  bestow. 

"During  a  visit  to  Riverscourt,  shortly  before 
the  time  appointed  for  her  marriage  to  Uncle 
Falcon,  then  a  comparatively  poor  man  with  no 
prospects — my  mother  met  my  father.  My  father 
fell  in  love  with  her,  and  my  mother  jilted  Uncle 
Falcon  in  order  to  marry  the  young  heir  to  the 
house  and  lands  of  Riverscourt.  Poor  mamma! 
How  well  I  could  understand  it,  remembering  her 
love  of  luxury,  and  of  all  those  things  which  go 
with  an  old  country  place  and  large  estates.  Uncle 
Falcon  never  spoke  to  her  again,  after  receiving 
the  letter  in  which  she  put  an  end  to  their  engage- 


•Uncle  Falcon's  Will  113 

ment ;  but  he  had  a  furious  scene  with  my  grand- 
father, who  had  connived  at  the  treachery  toward 
his  younger  brother;  and  then  horsewhipped  the 
young  subaltern,  in  his  father's  presence. 

"Shortly  afterwards,  he  sailed  for  America,  and 
never  returned. 

"Then — oh,  irony  of  fate!  After  three  years 
of  married  life,  the  young  heir  died,  without  a  son, 
and  Uncle  Falcon  stood  to  inherit  Riverscourt,  as 
the  last  in  the  entail. 

"Meanwhile  everything  he  touched  had  turned 
to  gold,  and  he  only  waited  my  grandfather's 
decease  to  return  as  master  to  the  old  home,  with 
the  large  fortune  which  would  soon  restore  it  to  its 
pristine  beauty  and  grandeur. 

"How  well  I  could  now  understand  my  grand- 
father's silent  fury,  and  my  mother's  remorseful 
bitterness!  By  her  own  infidelity,  she  had  made 
herself  the  niece  of  the  man  whose  wife  she  might 
have  been,  and  whose  wealtli,  jwsition,  and  power 
would  all  have  been  laid  at  her  feet.  Also,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  she  had  not  l)ccn  long  in  realising 
and  regretting  the  treasure  she  had  lost,  in  the  love 
of  the  older  man.  I  always  knew  mamma  had 
few  ideals,  and  no  illusicms.  Many  of  my  own 
pronounced  views  on  the  vital  things  in  life  are 
the    product    of    her    disillusionising    philosophy. 


114       The  Followino;-  of  the  Star 


Pcx)r  mamma!  Oh,  Cousin  David,  I  see  it  hurts 
you  each  time  I  say  '  poor  mamma ' !  Yet  you  can- 
not know  what  it  means,  when  one's  kindest 
thoughts  of  one's  mother  must  needs  be  prefixed 
by  the  adjective  'poor.'  Yes,  I  know  it  is  a 
sad  state  of  things  when  pity  must  be  called  in  to 
soften  filial  judgment.  But  then  life  is  full  of 
these  sad  things,  is  n't  it?  Anyway  I  have  found 
it  so.  Had  my  mother  left  me  one  single  illusion 
regarding  men  and  marriage,  I  might  not  now  find 
myself  in  the  difficult  position  in  which  I  am 
placed  to-day. 

"However,  for  one  thing  I  have  always  been 
thankful — one  hour  when  I  can  remember  my 
mother  with  admiration  and  respect:  that  morn- 
ing at  breakfast,  in  our  humble  suburban  villa, 
when  she  tore  up  and  flung  to  the  flames  Uncle 
Falcon's  cheque  for  a  thousand  poimds. 

"A  close  intimacy,  and  a  deep,  though  unde- 
monstrative, affection,  soon  arose  between  Uncle 
Falcon  and  myself.  His  life-long  fidelity  to  his 
love  for  my  mother  seemed  to  transfer  itself  to 
me,  and  to  be  at  last  content  in  having  found  an 
object.  My  every  wish  was  met  and  gratified. 
He  insisted  upon  allowing  me  a  thousand  a  year, 
merely  as  pocket-money,  while  still  defraying  all 
large  expenses  for  me,   himself.     Hunters,  dogs, 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  115 

everything  I  could  wish,  were  secured  and  put  at 
my  disposal.  His  last  gift  to  me  was  the  motor- 
car which  brought  you  here  to-day. 

" His  sense  of  humour  was  delightful;  his  shrewd 
keen  judgment  of  men  and  things,  instructive  and 
entertaining.  But — he  had  one  peculiarity.  So 
sure  was  he  of  his  own  discernment,  and  so  ac- 
customed to  bend  others  to  his  iron  will,  that  if  one 
held  a  different  view  from  liis  and  ventured  to  say 
so,  he  could  never  rest  until  he  had  won  in  the 
argument  and  brought  one  round  to  his  way  of 
thinking.  He  was  never  irritable  over  the  point; 
he  kept  his  temper,  and  controlled  his  tongue. 
But  he  never  rested  until  he  had  convinced  and 
defeated  a  mental  opponent. 

"  He  and  I  agreed  upon  most  subjects,  but  there 
was  one  on  which  we  differed;  and  Uncle  Falcon 
could  never  bring  himself  to  let  it  be.  In  spite 
of  his  own  hard  cxiK^rience  and  consequent 
bachelorhood, — |)crhaps  because  of  it, — he  was  an 
ardent  believer  in  marriage.  He  held  that  a 
woman  was  not  meant  to  stand  alone;  that  she 
missed  her  projx^r  v(X\'ition  in  life  if  she  refused 
matrimony;  and  that  she  attained  her  full  per- 
fection only  whi-n  the  marriage  tie  had  brought 
her  to  depend,  for  her  completion  and  for  her 
happiness,   upon   her   rightful   master —man. 


ii6       The  Following  of  the  Star 

"On  the  other  hand,  I,  as  you  may  have  dis- 
covered, Cousin  David,  regard  the  whole  idea 
of  marriage  with  abhorrence.  I  hold  that,  as 
things  now  stand  in  this  civilization  of  ours,  a 
woman's  one  absolute  right  is  her  right  to  herself. 
She  is  her  own  inalienable  possession.  Why 
should  she  give  herself  up  to  a  man;  becoming 
his  chattel,  to  do  with  as  he  pleases?  Why 
should  she  lose  all  right  over  her  own  person, 
her  own  property,  her  own  liberty  of  action  and 
regulation  of  circumstance?  Why  should  she 
change  her  very  name  for  his?  If  the  two  could 
stand  on  a  platform  of  absolute  independence 
and  equality,  the  thing  might  be  bearable — for 
some.  It  would  still  be  intolerable  to  me!  But, 
as  the  law  and  social  usage  now  stand,  marriage 
is — to  the  woman — practically  slavery;  and, 
therefore,    an   unspeakable   degradation!" 

Diana's  eyes  flashed;  her  colour  rose;  her  firm 
chin  seemed  more  than  ever  to  be  moulded  in 
marble. 

David,  sole  representative  of  the  tyrant  man, 
quailed  beneath  the  lash  of  her  indictment. 
He  knew  Diana  was  wrong.  He  felt  he  ought  to 
say  that  marriage  was  scriptural ;  and  that  woman 
was  intended,  from  the  first,  to  be  in  subjection 
to  man.     But  he  had  not  the  courage  of  his  con- 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  117 

victions;  nor  could  he  brook  the  thought  of  any 
man  attempting  to  subjugate  this  glorious  speci- 
men of  womanhood,  invading  her  privacy,  or  in 
any  way  presuming  to  dispute  her  absolute  right 
over  herself.  So  he  shrank  into  his  large  arm- 
chair, and  took  refuge  in  silence. 

"  When  I  proclaimed  my  views  to  Uncle  Falcon," 
continued  Diana,  "he  would  hear  me  to  the  end, 
and  then  say:  'My  dear  girl,  after  the  manner  of 
most  women  orators,  you  mount  the  platform 
of  your  own  ignorance,  and  lay  down  the  law 
from  the  depths — or,  perhaps  I  should  say, 
shallows — of  your  own  absolute  inexperience.  Get 
married,  child,  and  you  will  tell  a  different  story.' 

"Then  Uncle  Falcon  set  himself  to  compass 
this  result,  but  without  success.  However  pro- 
found might  be  my  inexperience,  I  knew  how  to 
keep  men  at  arm's  length,  thank  goodness!  But, 
as  the  happy  years  went  by,  we  periodically 
reverted  to  our  one  point  of  difference.  At  the 
close  of  each  discussion.  Uncle  Falcon  used  to 
say:  *I  shall  win,  Diana!  Some  day  you  will 
have  to  admit  that  I  have  won.'  His  eyes  used 
to  gleam  beneath  his  shaggy  brows,  and  I  would 
turn  the  subject;  l)ccausc  I  could  not  give  in, 
yet  I  felt  it  was  becoming  almost  a  mania  with 
Uncle  Falcon. 


ii8       The  Following  of  the  Star 

"It  was  the  only  thing  in  which  I  failed  to 
please  him.  His  pride  in  my  riding,  and  in  any- 
thing else  I  could  do,  was  touching  beyond  words. 
He  remodelled  the  kennels,  and  financed  the  hunt 
in  our  neighbourhood,  on  condition  that  I  was 
Master. 

"One  day  his  speech  suddenly  became  thick 
and  difficult.  He  sent  for  Mr.  Inglestry,  our 
old  family  friend  and  adviser,  and  was  closeted 
with  him  for  over  an  hour. 

"When  Mr.  Inglestry  came  out  of  the  library, 
his  face  was  grave;  his  manner,  worried. 

"  'Go  to  your  uncle,  Miss  Rivers,'  he  said. 
"He  has  been  exciting  himself  a  good  deal,  over 
a  matter  about  which  I  felt  bound  to  expostulate, 
and  I  think  he  needs  attention.  * 

"I  went  into  the  Hbrary. 

"Uncle  Falcon's  eyes  were  brighter  than  ever, 
though  his  lips  twitched.  'I  shall  win,  Diana,* 
he  said.  'Some  day  you  will  have  to  admit 
that  I  have  won.  You  will  have  to  say:  "Uncle 
Falcon,  you  have  won."  ' 

"I  knelt  down  in  front  of  him.  'No  other 
man  will  ever  win  me,  dear.  So  I  can  say  it  at 
once.     Uncle  Falcon,  you  have  won.' 

"  'Foolish  girl!  '  he  said;  then  looked  at  me 
with  inexpressible  affection.     'I   w-want   you  to 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  119 

be  happy,'  he  said.  '  I  w-want  you  to  be  as 
h-happy  as  I  would  have  made  Geraldine.' 

"Geraldine   was  my  mother. 

"On  the  following  day,  Uncle  Falcon  sent  for 
another  lawyer,  a  young  man  just  opening  a 
practice  in  Riversmead.  He  arrived  with  his 
clerk,  but  only  spent  a  very  few  minutes  in  the 
library,  and  as  we  have  never  heard  from  him 
since,  no  transaction  of  importance  can  have 
taken  place.  Mr.  Inglestry  had  the  will  and  the 
codicil. 

"A  few  nights  later,  I  was  summoned  to  my 
uncle's  room.  He  neither  spoke  nor  moved 
again;  but  his  eyes  were  still  bright  beneath 
the  bushy  eyebrows.  He  knew  me  to  the  end. 
Those  living  eyes,  in  the  already  dead  body, 
seemed  to  say:  'Diana,  I  shall  win.' 

"At  dawn,  the  brave,  dauntless  soul  left  the 
body,  which  had  long  clogged  it,  and  launched 
out  into  the  Unknown.  My  first  conscious  prayer 
was:  that  he  might  not  there  meet  either  my  father 
or  my  mother,  but  some  noble  kindred  spirit, 
worthy  of  him.  Cousin  David,  you  would  have 
liked  Uncle  Fala»n. " 

"I  am  sure  I  should  have,"  said  David  Rivers. 

"Go  into  the  librar>',"  commanded  Diana, 
"the  door  opposite  the  dining-room,  and  study 


120       The  Following  of  the  Star 

the  portrait  of  him  hanging  over  the  mantel- 
piece, painted  by  a  famous  artist,  two  years  ago." 

David  went. 

Diana  rang,  and  sent  for  a  glass  of  water; 
went  to  the  window,  and  looked  out;  crossed  to  a 
mirror,  and  nervously  smoothed  her  abundant 
hair.  Hitherto  she  had  been  cantering  smoothly 
over  open  country.  Now  she  was  approaching 
the  leap.  She  must  keep  her  nerve — or  she  would 
find  herself  riding  for  a  fall. 

"  Did  you  notice  his  eyes?"  she  asked,  as  David 
sat   down   again. 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  "wonderful  eyes;  bright, 
as  golden  amber.  You  must  not  be  offended — 
you  would  not  be,  if  you  could  know  how  beautiful 
they  were — but  the  only  eyes  I  ever  saw  at  all 
like  them,  belonged  to  a  Macacus  Cynomolgus, 
a  little  African  monkey — who  was  a  great  pet 
of  mine." 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  Diana.  "I  know 
the  eyes  of  that  vspecies  of  monkey.  Now, 
tell  me?  Did  Uncle  Falcon's  amber  eyes  say 
anything  to  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  David.  "It  must  have  been 
simply  owing  to  all  you  have  told  me.  But. 
the  longer  I  looked  at  them — the  more  clearly 
they  said:  'I  shall  win.'" 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  121 

"Well,  now  listen,"  said  Diana,  "if  my  history 
does  not  wearj'  you.  When  Mr.  Inglestr>'  pro- 
duced Uncle  Falcon's  will,  he  had  left  everything 
to  me:  Riverscourt,  the  whole  estate,  the  four 
livings  of  which  he  held  the  patronage,  and — 
his  immense  fortune.  Cousin  David,  I  am  so 
rich  that  I  have  not  yet  learned  how  to  spend 
my  money.  I  want  you  to  help  me.  I  have 
indeed  the  gift  of  gold  to  ofler  to  the  King.  I 
wish  you  to  have,  r.t  once,  all  you  require  for  the 
church,  the  schools,  the  printing-press,  and  the 
boat,  of  which  you  spoke.  And  then,  I  wish  you 
to  have  a  thousand  a  year — two,  if  you  need  them 
— for  the  current  expenses  of  your  work,  and  to 
enable  you  to  have  a  colleague.  Will  you  accept 
this,  Cousin  David,  from  a  grateful  heart,  guided 
by  you,  led  by  the  Star,  and  able  to-day  to  offer 
it  to  the  King?" 

At  first  David  made  no  reply.  He  sat  quite 
silent,  his  head  throNN-n  l)ack,  his  hands  clasping 
his  knee;  and  Diana  knew,  as  she  watched  the 
working  of  the  thin  white  face,  that  he  was  striving 
to  master  an  emotion  such  as  a  man  hates  to 
show  before  a  woman. 

Then  he  sat  up,  loosing  his  knee,  and  answered 
very  simply: 

"I   accept     for    tlu*    King   and    for    His   work. 


122       The  Following  of  the  Star 

Miss  Rivers;  and  I  accept  on  behalf  of  my 
poor  eager   waiting    people    out   there.      Ah,    if 

you   could   know    how    much    it    means !" 

His    voice     broke. 

Diana  felt  the  happy  tears  welling  up  into  her 
own  eyes. 

"And  we  will  call  the  church,"  said  David, 
presently,  "the  Chtuch  of  the  Holy  Star." 

"Very  well,"  said  Diana.  "Then  that  is 
settled.  You  have  helped  me  with  my  first 
gift.  Cousin  David.  Now  you  must  advise  and 
help  me  about  the  second.  And,  indeed,  the  possi- 
bility of  offering  the  first  depends  almost  entirely 
upon  the  advice  you  give  me  about  the  second. 
You  know  you  said  the  frankincense  meant  our 
ideals — the  high  and  holy  things  in  our  lives? 
Well,  my  ideals  are  in  sore  peril.  I  want  you  to 
advise  me  as  to  how  to  keep  them.  Listen! 
There  was  a  codicil  to  Uncle  Falcon's  will — a 
private  codicil  known  only  to  Mr.  Inglestry  and 
myself,  and  only  to  be  made  known  a  year  after 
his  death,  to  those  whom,  if  I  failed  to  fulfil  its 
conditions,  it  might  then  concern.  Riverscourt, 
and  all  this  wealth,  are  mine,  only  on  condition 
that  I  am  married,  within  twelve  months  of  Uncle 
Falcon's  death.     He  has  been  dead,  eleven." 

Diana  paused. 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  123 

"Good  God!"  said  David  Rivers;  and  it  was 
not  a  careless  exclamation.  It  was  a  cry  of 
protest  from  his  very  soul.  "On  condition  that 
you  are  married!"  he  said.     "And  to  whom?" 

"No  stipulation  was  made  as  to  that,"  replied 
Diana.  "But  Uncle  Falcon  had  three  men  in 
his  mind,  all  of  whom  he  liked,  and  each  of  whom 
considers  himself  in  love  with  me:  a  famous 
doctor  in  London,  a  distinguished  cleric  in  our 
cathedral  town,  and  a  distant  cousin,  Rupert 
Rivers,  to  whom  the  whole  property  is  to  go, 
if   I   fail   to  fulfil   the  condition." 

David  sat  forward,  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  and  rumpled  his  hair  with  his  hands. 
Horror  and  dismay  were  in  his  honest  eyes. 

"It  is  unlxjlievablc ! "  he  said.  "That  he 
should  really  care  for  you,  and  wish  your  happi- 
ness, and  yet  lay  this  burden  upon  you  after  his 
death.  His  mind  must  have  been  affected  when 
he  made  that  codicil." 

"So  Mr.  Inglcstry  says;  but  not  sufficiently 
affected  to  enable  us  to  dispute  it.  The  idea 
of  lx?nding  me  to  matrimony,  and  of  forcing  me 
to  admit  that  it  was  tlu-  l)ctter  part,  had  l)ecome 
a  monomania  with  Uncle  Falcon." 

David  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  his  look 
bent  upon  the  floor.     Now  that  he  knew  of  tliis 


124       The  Following  of  the  Star 

cruel  condition  imposed  upon  the  beautiful  girl 
sitting  opposite  to  him,  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  lift  his  eyes  to  hers.  She  should  be  looked  at 
only  with  admiration  and  wonder ;  and  now  a 
depth  of  pity  would  be  in  his  eyes.  Therefore 
he  kept  them  lowered. 

"So,"  said  Diana,  "you  see  how  I  am  placed. 
If  I  refuse  to  fulfil  the  condition,  on  the  anni- 
versary of  Uncle  Falcon's  death  we  must  tell 
Rupert  Rivers  of  the  codicil;  I  shall  have  to 
hand  over  everything  to  him;  leave  my  dear 
home,  and  go  back  to  the  life  of  nuining  after 
omnibuses,  and  pretending  to  enjoy  potted  meat 
lunches !  On  the  other  hand,  if — in  order  to  keep 
my  home,  my  income,  all  the  Itixuries  I  love,  my 
position  in  the  county,  and  the  influence  which 
I  now  for  the  first  time  begin  to  value  for  the 
true  reason — I  marry  one  of  these  men,  or  one 
of  half  a  dozen  others  who  would  require  only 
the  slightest  encouragement  to  propose  to  me  at 
once,  I  fail  to  keep  true  to  my  own  ideals;  I 
practically  barter  myself  and  my  liberty,  in  order 
to  keep  the  place  which  is  rightfully  my  own; 
I  sink  to  the  level  of  the  women  I  have  long  de- 
spised,  who  marry  for  money." 

"You  must  not  do  that,"  said  David.  "Nay, 
more;  you  could  not   do  that.     But  is  not  your 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  125 

Cousin  Rupert  a  man  whom  you  might  learn  to 
love;  a  man  you  could  marry  for  the  real  reasons?" 

Diana  laughed,  bitterly. 

"Cousin  David,"  she  said,  "shortly  before 
grandpapa  died,  I  was  engaged  to  Rupert  Rivers 
for  a  fortnight.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  loathed 
my  own  body.  Young  as  I  was,  and  scornfully 
opposed  by  my  mother,  I  took  matters  into  my 
own  hands,  and  broke  off  the  engagement." 

David  looked  perplexed. 

"It  should  not  have  had  that  effect  upon  you, " 
he  said,  slowly.  "I  don't  know  much  about  it. 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  a  man's  love  and  worship 
should  tend  to  make  a  woman  reverence  her  own 
body,  and  regard  her  beauty  in  a  new  light, 
because  of  his  delight  in  it.  I  remember  —  " 
a  sudden  flush  suffused  David's  pale  checks,  but 
he  brought  forth  his  reminiscence  bravely,  for 
Diana's  sake:  "I  rememlKT  kissing  Amy's  hand 
the  evening  before  I  first  went  to  college,  and 
she  wrote  and  told  mc  that  for  days  afterwards 
that  hand  hatl  seemed  unlike  the  other,  and  when- 
ever she  looked  at  it  she  remembered  that  I  had 
kissed  it. " 

Diana's  laughter  was  in  her  eyes.  She  did 
not  admit  it  to  her  voice.  She  felt  very  much 
older,  at  that  moment,  than  David  Rivers. 


126       The  Following  of  the  Star 

"Oh,  you  dear  boy!"  she  said.  "What  can 
you,  with  your  Amy  and  your  Africans,  know  of 
such  men  as  Rupert,  or  the  doctor,  or  even — 
even  the  chiu"ch  dignitary?  You  would  love  a 
woman's  soul,  and  cherish  her  body  because  it 
contained  it.  They  make  one  feel  that  nothing 
else  matters  much,  so  long  as  one  is  beautiful. 
And  after  having  been  looked  at  by  them  for  a 
little  while,  one  feels  inclined  to  smash  one's 
mirror." 

David  lifted  quiet  eyes  to  hers.  They  seemed 
deep  wells  of  childlike  purity;  yet  there  was  fire 
in  their  calm  depths. 

"When  you  are  so  beautiful,"  he  said,  simply, 
"you  can't  blame  a  man  for  thinking  so,  when 
he  looks  at  you." 

Diana  laughed,  blushing.  She  was  surfeited 
with  compliments;  yet  this  of  David's,  so  unpre- 
meditated, so  impersonal,  pleased  her  more  than 
any  compliment  had  ever  pleased  her. 

But,  in  an  instant,  she  was  grave  again.  Mo- 
mentous issues  lay  before  her.  Uncle  Falcon 
had  been  dead  eleven  months. 

"Then  would  you  advise  me  to  marry,  and 
thus  retain  the  property?"  she  suggested. 

" God  forbid ! "  cried  David.  "That  you  should 
be   compelled   to   leave    here,  seems  intolerable; 


Uncle  Falcon's  Will  127 

but  it  would  be  infinitely  more  intolerable  that 
you  should  make  a  loveless  marriage.  Give  up 
all,  if  needs  must,  but — keep  your  ideals." 

EHana  glanced  at  him,  from  beneath  half- 
lifted  lids. 

"That  will  mean,  Cousin  David,  that  you  can- 
not have  the  money  for  your  church,  your  school, 
your  printing-press,  and  your  steam-launch;  nor 
the  yearly  income  for  current  expenses." 

Now,  curiously  enough,  David  had  not  thought 
of  this.  His  mind  had  been  completely  taken 
up  with  the  idea  of  Diana  running  after  omni- 
buses and  lunching  cheaply  on  potted  meat. 

The  great  disappointment  now  struck  him 
with  full  force;  but  he  did  not  waver  for  an  instant. 

"How  could  I  build  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Star  on  the  proceeds  of  your  lost  ideals?"  he 
said.  "If  my  church  is  to  be  built,  tlie  money 
will  be  found  in  some  other  way." 

"There  is  another  way,"  said  Diana,  suddenly. 

David  looked  up,  surprised  at  the  forceful 
decision    of    her    tone. 

"What  other  way  is  there?"  he  asked. 

Diana  rose;  walked  over  to  the  window  and 
stjxxl  looking  across  the  si)acious  park,  at  the 
pale  gold  of  the  wintr>'  sunset. 

She  was  in  full  view,  at  last,  of  her  high  fence, 


128       The  Following  of  the  Star 

and  did  not  yet  know  what  lay  beyond  it.  She 
headed  straight  for  it;  but  she  rode  on  the  curb. 

She  walked  back  to  the  fireplace,  and  stood 
confronting  him;  her  superb  young  figure  drawn 
up  to  its  full  height. 

Her  voice  was  very  quiet;  her  manner,  very 
deliberate,  as  she  answered  his  question. 

"I  want  you  to  marry  me.  Cousin  David," 
she  said,  "on  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which 
you  start  for  Central  Africa." 


CHAPTER   X 
Diana's  high  fence 

F^AVID  RI\TERS  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  faced 
^     Diana. 

"I  cannot  do  that,"  he  said. 

Diana  had  expected  this.  She  waited  a  mo- 
ment, silently;  while  the  atmosphere  palpitated 
with  David's  intense  suq^rise. 

Then:  "WTiy  not,  Cousin  David?"  she  asked 
quietly. 

And,  as  he  still  stood  before  her,  speechless, 
"Sit  down,"  she  commanded,  "and  tell  me. 
Why  not?" 

But  David  stood  his  ground,  and  Diana  realised, 
for  the  first  time,  that  he  was  slightly  taller  than 
herself. 

"WTiy  not?"  he  said.  "Why  not!  Why  be- 
cause, even  if  I  wished  —I  mean,  even  if  you 
wished — even  if  we  both  wished  for  each  other  — 
in  that  way — Central  Africa  is  no  place  for  a 
woman.     I  would  never  take  a  woman  there!" 

>^ 


130       The  Following  of  the  Star 

Diana's  face  flushed.  Her  white  teeth  bit 
sharply  into  her  lower  lip.  Her  hands  clenched 
themselves  suddenly  at  her  sides.  The  fury  of 
her  eyes  flashed  full  into  the  blank  dismay  of 
his. 

Then,  with  a  mighty  effort,  she  mastered  her 
imperious  temper. 

"My  dear  Cousin  David,'*  she  said — and  she 
spoke  slowly,  seating  herself  upon  the  sofa,  and 
carefully  arranging  the  silken  cushions  to  her 
liking:  "You  totally  mistake  my  meaning.  I 
gave  you  credit  for  more  perspicacity.  I  have 
not  the  smallest  intention  of  going  to  Central 
Africa,  or  of  ever  inflicting  my  presence,  or  my 
companionship,  upon  you.  Surely  you  and  I 
have  made  it  pretty  clear  to  one  another  that  we 
are  each  avowed  celibates.  But,  just  because  of 
this — just  because  we  both  have  everything  to 
gain,  and  nothing  to  lose  by  such  an  arrangement 
— just  because  we  so  completely  understand 
one  another — I  can  say  to  you — as  frankly  as  I 
would  say:  'Cousin  David,  will  you  oblige  me 
by  witnessing  my  signature  to  this  document?' — 
'Cousin  David,  will  you  oblige  me  by  marrying 
me  on  the  morning  of  the  day  upon  which  you 
return  to  Central  Africa?'  Do  you  not  see 
that  by  doing  so,  you  take  no  burden  upon  your- 


Diana's  High  Fence  131 

self,  yet  you  free  me  at  once  from  the  desperate 
plight  in  which  I  am  placed  by  Uncle  Falcon's 
codicil?  You  enable  me  to  give  the  gold  and 
the  frankincense,  and  you  yourself  have  told  me 
over  and  over,  that  you  never  expect  to  return 
to  England. " 

David's  young  face  paled  and  hardened. 

"I  see,"  he  said.  "So  /  am  to  provide  the 
myrrh!  I  could  not  promise  to  die,  for  certain, 
you  know.  I  might  pull  through,  and  live,  after 
all;  which  would  be  awkward  for  you." 

This  was  the  most  human  remark  she  had,  as 
yet,  heard  from  David;  but  the  bitterness  of  his 
tone  brought  the  tears  to  Diana's  eyes.  She  had  not 
realised  how  much  her  proposal  would  hurt  him. 

"Dear  Cousin  David,"  she  said,  with  extreme 
gentleness;  "God  grant  indeed  that  you  may  live, 
and  spend  many  years  in  doing  your  great  work. 
But  you  told  me  you  had  nothing  to  bring  you 
back  to  England,  and  that  you  felt  you  were 
leaving  it  now,  never  to  return.  It  was  not  my 
suggestion.  And  don't  you  see,  that  if  you  help 
mc  thus,  you  will  also  Ix;  helping  your  poor  African 
people;  because  it  will  mean  that  you  can  have 
your  church,  and  your  schools,  and  all  the  other 
things  you  need,  and  a  yearly  income  for  current 
expenses?" 


132        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"So  these  were  all  bribes,"  cried  David,  and 
his  eyes  flamed  down  into  hers — "bribes  to  make 
me  do  this  thing!  And  you  called  them  gifts 
for  the  King!" 

Diana  flushed.  The  injustice  of  this  was 
hard  to  bear.  But  the  indignant  pain  in  his 
voice  helped  her  to  reply  with  quiet  self-control. 

"Cousin  David,  I  am  sorry  you  think  that  of 
me.  It  is  quite  unjust.  Had  there  been  no 
codicil  to  my  uncle's  will,  every  penny  I  hope 
to  offer  for  your  work  would  have  been  gladly, 
freely,  offered.  Since  I  knew  that  my  gold  could 
be  useful  in  helping  you  to  bring  light  into  that 
darkness,  the  thought  has  been  one  of  pure  joy. 
Oh,  Cousin  David,  say  'no'  to  my  request,  if  you 
like,  but  don't  wrong  me  by  misjudging  the  true 
desire  of  my  heart  to  bring  my  gifts,  all  unworthy 
though  they  be.  Remember  you  stand  for  the 
Christ  to  me.  Cousin  David;  and  He  was  never 
unjust  to  a  woman." 

David's  face  softened;  but  instantly  hardened 
again,  as  a  fresh  thought  struck  him. 

"Was  this  plan — this  idea — in  your  mind," 
he  demanded,  "on  that  Simday  night  when  you 
first  came  to  Brambledene  Church?"  Then, 
as  Diana  did  not  answer:  "Oh,  good  heavens!" 
he  cried,  vehemently;  "say  it  was  n't!     My  Lady 


Diana's  Hicrh  Fence  133 


o 


of  Mystery!  Say  you  came  to  worship,  and  that 
all  this  was  an  af ter- thought ! " 

Diana's  clear  eyes  met  his.  They  did  not 
flinch,  though  her  lips  trembled. 

"I  cannot  lie  to  you,  Cousin  David,"  she  said, 
bravely.  "I  had  heard  you  were  never  coming 
back — it  seemed  a  possible  way  out — it  seemed 
my  last  hope.  I — I  came — to  see  if  you  were  a 
man  I  could  trust." 

David  groaned ;  looked  wildly  round  the  room, 
as  if  for  a  way  of  escape;  then  sank  into  a  chair, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"I  cannot  do  it,  Miss  Rivers,"  he  said.  "It 
would  be  making  a  mockery  of  God's  most  holy 
ordinance  of  matrimony — to  wed  you  in  the 
morning,  knowing  I  should  leave  you  forever 
in  the  afternoon.  How  could  I  promise,  in  the 
presence  of  God,  to  love,  comfort,  honour  and 
keep  you?  The  whole  thing  would  be  a  sacri- 
lege." 

He  lifted  a  haggard  face,  looking  at  her  with 
despairing  eyes. 

Diana  smiled  softly  into  them.  A  moment 
before,  she  had  expected  to  sec  him  leave  the 
room  and  the  house,  forever.  That  he  should 
sit  dovm  and  discuss  the  matter,  even  to  prove 
the    impossibility    of   acceding    to    her    request, 


134       The  Following  of  the  Star 

seemed,  in  some  sort,  a  hopeful  sign.     She  held 
his  look  while  she  answered. 

"  Dear  Cousin  David,  why  should  it  be  a  mock- 
ery? Let  us  consider  it  reasonably.  Surely,  in 
the  best  and  highest  of  senses,  it  might  be  really 
rather  true.  I  know  you  don't  love  me;  but — 
you  do  like  me  a  little,  don't  you?" 

"I  like  you  very  much  indeed,"  said  David, 
woefully;  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  they  both 
laughed.  The  rueful  admission  had  sounded  so 
funny. 

"Why  of  course  I  like  you,"  said  David,  with 
conviction;  "better  than  any  one  else  I  know. 
But " 

He  paused;  looked  at  her,  helplessly,  and  hesi- 
tated. 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  Diana,  quickly. 
*'Like  is  not  love;  but  in  many  cases  'Hke'  is  much 
better  than  'love,'  to  my  thinking.  I  know  a 
very  Christian  old  person,  whom  I  once  heard 
say:  'We  are  commanded  in  the  Bible  to  love 
the  brethren.  I  always  love  the  brethren,  though 
I  cannot  always  like  them.'  Now  I  had  much 
rather  you  liked  me,  and  did  n't  love  me.  Cousin 
David,  than  that  you  loved  me,  and  didn't 
like   me!     Wouldn't   you? 

"And  remember  how  St.  John  began  one  of 


Diana's  High  Fence  135 

his  epistles:  'The  Elder  unto  the  well  beloved 
Gaius,  whom  I  love  in  the  truth. '  I  am  sure,  if 
you  had  occasion  to  write  to  me,  and  began: 
'David,  imto  the  well  belovM  Diana,  whom  I 
love  in  the  truth,'  no  one  could  consider  it  an 
ordinary  love-letter,  and  yet  it  would  answer 
the  purpose.     Wouldn't  it.  Cousin  David?" 

David  laughed  again,  in  spite  of  his  desire  to 
maintain  an  attitude  of  tragic  protest.  And,  as 
he  laughed,  his  face  grew  less  haggard,  and  his 
eyes  regained  their  normal  expression  of  stead- 
fast calm. 

Diana  hurried  on. 

"So  much  for  love.  Now  what  comes  next? 
Comfort?  Ah,  the  comfort  you  would  bring 
into  my  life !  Comfort  of  body ;  comfort  of  mind ; 
the  daily,  hourly,  constant  comfort  wrought  by 
the  solving  of  this  dark  problem.  And  then — 
'honour.'  Why,  you  can  honour  a  woman  as 
much  by  your  thought  of  her  at  a  distance,  as  by 
any  word  or  action  in  her  presence.  Not  that  I 
feel  worthy  of  honour  from  such  a  man  as  you. 
Cousin  David.  "Wt  I  know  you  would  honour  all 
women,  and  all  wonun  worth  anything,  would  try 
to  deserve  it.  Wliat  comes  next?  Keep?  Oh, 
what  could  be  a  truer  form  of  keeping,  than  to 
keep  me  from   a   k)wcring  marriage,  on  the  one 


136        The  Following  of  the  Star 

hand;  or  from  poverty,  and  all  the  ups  and  downs 
of  strenuous  London  life,  on  the  other ;  to  keep  me 
in  the  entourage  of  my  childhood's  lovely  home? 
It  seems  to  me,  Cousin  David,  that  you  would 
be  doing  more  'keeping'  for  me  than  falls  to  the 
lot  of  most  men  to  do  for  the  girls  they  marry. 
And,  best  of  all,  you  would  be  keeping  me  true 
to  the  purest,  highest  ideals. " 

David's  elbows  had  found  his  knees  again. 
He  rumpled  his  hair,  despairingly. 

"Miss  Rivers,"  he  said,  "I  admit  the  truth  of 
all  you  say.  I  would  gladly  do  anything  to  be — 
er — useful  to  you,  under  these  difficult  circum- 
stances; anything  right.  But  could  it  be  right 
to  go  through  the  solemn  marriage  service,  with- 
out having  the  slightest  intention  of  fulfilling  any 
of  the  causes  for  which  matrimony  was  ordained? 
And  could  it  be  right  for  a  man  to  take  upon 
himself  solemn  obligations  with  regard  to  a 
woman;  and,  a  few  hours  later,  leave  her,  never 
to  return?" 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Diana,  "that  the  cause 
for  oiir  marriage  would  be  a  more  important 
and  vital  one  than  most  of  those  mentioned  in 
the  Prayer-book.  And,  as  to  the  question  of 
leaving  me — why,  before  the  Boer  war,  several 
friends  of  mine  married  their  soldiers  on  the  eve 


Diana's  Hii^-h  Fence  137 


't) 


of  their  departure  for  the  front,  simply  because 
if  they  were  going  out  to  die,  they  wished  the 
privilege  of  being  their  widows." 

David's  eyes  softened. 

"That  was  love,"  he  said. 

"  Not  in  every  case.  I  know  a  girl  who  married 
an  old  Sir  Somebody  on  the  morning  of  the  day  his 
regiment  sailed,  making  sure  he  would  be  killed  in 
his  first  engagement;  he  offered  such  a  vast,  expan- 
sive mark  for  the  Boer  sharpshooters.  She  wished 
to  be  Lady  So-and-So,  with  a  delicate  halo  of 
tragic  glory,  and  no  encumbrance.  But  back  he 
came  unscathed,  and  stout  as  ever — he  did  not 
even  get  enteric!  They  have  lived  a  cat  and 
dog  life,  ever  since." 

"Abominable!"  said  David.  "I  hate  hearing 
such  stories." 

"Well,  are  not  our  motives  better?  And  are 
they  not  better  than  scores  of  the  loveless  mar- 
riages which  are  taking  place  every  day?" 

"Other  people's  wrong,  docs  not  constitute 
our  right, "  said  David,  doggedly. 

"I  know  that,"  she  answered,  with  unruffled 
patience;  "but  I  cannot  sec  any  wrong  in  what 
we  propose  to  do.  We  may  be  absolutely  faithful 
to  one  another,  though  continents  divide  us.  I 
should  most  probably  continue  faithful  if  you  were 


138       The  Following  of  the  Star 

on  another  planet.  We  can  be  a  mutual  help 
and  comfort  the  one  to  the  other,  by  our  prayers 
and  constant  thought,  and  by  our  letters;  for  surely 
Cousin  David,  we  should  write  to  one  another — 
occasionally?  Is  not  our  friendship  worth  some- 
thing?" 

"It  is  worth  everything,"  said  David,  "except 
wrong  doing.  Look  here ! "  he  exclaimed  suddenly, 
rising  to  his  feet.  "I  must  go  right  away,  by 
myself,  and  think  this  thing  over,  for  twenty-four 
hours.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  shall  have  ar- 
rived at  a  clear  decision  in  my  own  mind.  Then, 
if  you  do  not  object,  and  can  allow  me  another 
day,  I  will  run  up  to  town,  and  lay  the  whole 
matter — of  course  without  mentioning  your  name 
— before  the  man  whose  judgment  I  trust  more 
than  that  of  any  man  I  know.  If  he  agrees 
with  me,  my  own  opinion  will  be  confirmed;  and 
if  he  differs " 

"You  will  still  adhere  to  your  own  opinion," 
said  Diana,  with  a  wistful  little  smile. 

She  rang  the  bell. 

"I  am  beginning  to  know  you  pretty  well, 
Cousin  David. — The  dogcart,  Rodgers. — Who 
is  this  Solon?" 

"A  London  physician,  who  has  given  me  endless 
care,  refusing  all  fees,  because  of  my  work,  and 


Diana's  High  Fence  139 

because  my  father  was  a  doctor.  Also  he  gives  a 
more  hopeful  report  than  any." 

"Really?  Does  he  think  you  will  stand  the 
climate  after  all?" 

David  smiled.  "He  gives  me  a  possible  three 
years,  under  favourable  circumstances.  The  other 
people  give  me  two,  perhaps  only  one." 

"I  think  you  must  tell  me  his  name.  He  may 
be  my  undesirable  suitor!" 

"Hardly,"  said  David.  "He  has  a  charming 
wife  of  his  own,  and  two  little  children.  But  of 
course  I  will  tell  you  who  he  is." 

David  named  a  name  which  brought  a  flush 
of  pleasure   to   Diana's  face. 

"Why,  I  know  him  well.  He  is  honourary  con- 
sulting physician  to  our  Plospital  of  the  Star, 
and  is  constantly  called  in  when  we  have  sjx^cially 
interesting  or  bafTling  cases.  You  could  n't  go 
to  a  better  man.  Toll  him  ever>'thing  if  you  like 
— my  name,  and  all.  He  is  absolutely  to  be 
trusted.  But — Cousin  David — "  They  heard 
the  horse's  hoofs  on  the  drive,  and  she  rose  and 
faced  him —  "Ah,  do  remember,  how  much 
this  means  to  me!  Don't  make  an  abstract  case 
of  it.  when  you  consider  it  alone.  Don't  dissolve 
it  from  its  intensely  personal  connection  with  you 
and  mc.     We  arc  so  unlike  ordinary  jx^ople.     Wc 


140       The  Following  of  the  Star 

are  both  alone  in  the  world.  Your  work  is  so 
much  to  you.  We  could  make  your — your  three 
years  so  gloriously  fruitful.  You  would  leave 
such  a  strongly  estabUshed  church  behind  you, 
and  I  would  go  on  supporting  it.  My  home  is  so 
much  to  me;  and  I  am  just  beginning  to  imder- 
stand  the  influence  I  possess.  Think  if,  as  these 
four  Hvings  become  vacant,  I  can  put  in  really 
earnest  men.  Think  of  the  improvements  I  could 
make  in  the  condition  of  the  villages.  At  present 
I  have  been  able  to  do  so  little,  because  Mr.  In- 
glestry  is  holding  back  as  much  as  possible  of 
this  year's  income,  to  which  I  have  any  way  the 
right,  in  order  to  buy  me  a  small  annuity  when  I 
lose  all.  For,  let  me  tell  you  frankly,  Cousin 
David,  if  you  cannot  do  as  I  ask,  that  is  what  it 
will  mean.  I  have  no  intention  whatever  of 
selling  my  body  into  slavery,  or  my  soul  to  hopeless 
degradation,  by  marrying  Rupert  Rivers,  or  any 
of  the  others.  I  lose  all,  if  you  say  'no';  and  I 
lose  it  on  the  Feast  of  the  Star.  At  the  same 
time,  ah,  God  knows,  I  do  not  want  to  do  wrong! 
Nor  do  I  want  to  urge  you  to  do  violence  to 
yoiir  own  conscience.     You  know  that?" 

David  took  her  hand,  holding  it  very  firmly 
in  his. 

"I  know  that,"  he  said-,  "and  I  think  you  can 


Diana's  High  Fence  141 

trust  me,  Miss  Rivers,  not  to  forget  how  much 
it  means  to  us  both.  If  it  meant  more,  there  could 
be  no  doubt.  If  it  meant  less,  there  would  be 
no  question.  It  is  because  it  means  exactly 
what  it  does  mean,  that  the  situation  is  so  difficult. 
I  believe  light  will  soon  come;  and  when  it  comes, 
it  will  come  clearly.  I  think  it  ^nHII  come  to  me 
to-night.  If  so,  I  need  not  keep  you  waiting 
forty-eight  hours.  I  will  go  up  to  town  early 
to-morrow  morning,  and  see  Sir  Der>xk,  if  possi- 
ble, in  time  to  catch  the  2.35  for  Riversmead. 
Could  you  be  here,  alone,  at  that  hour  to-morrow?" 

"I  will  send  to  meet  the  2.35,"  said  Diana; 
"and  I  will  be  here  alone.  Good-bye,  Cousin 
David." 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Rivers." 

Diana  went  into  the  hall,  watched  him  climb 
into  the  dogcart  and  l)e  driven  rapidly  away 
without  looking  back. 

Then  she  entered  the  library',  closed  and 
locked  the  door,  and  stood  on  the  hearth-rug 
looking  up  at  the  ix^rtrait  of  Falcon  Rivers. 
The  amber  eyes  seemed  to  twinkle  kindly  into 
hers;  but  they  still  said:  "I  shall  win,  Diana." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Falcon,"  she  whisixrcd  "was  this 
the  way  to  secure  my  happiness?  Ah,  if  you  could 
know  the  loneliness,   the  pain,  the  humiliation, 


142       The  Following  of  the  Star 

the  shame !  To  have  had  to  ask  this  of  any  man — 
even  of  such  a  saint  as  David  Rivers.  And  how 
cruelly  I  hurt  him,  by  seeming  to  build  the  whole 
plan  upon  the  certainty  of  his  death." 

Suddenly  she  broke  down  under  the  prolonged 
strain  of  the  afternoon's  conversation.  Kneeling 
at  her  uncle's  empty  chair — where  she  had  so  often 
knelt,  looking  up  into  his  kind  eyes — she  buried 
her  face  on  her  arms  and  wept,  and  wept,  until 
she  could  weep  no  longer. 

"If  only  he  had  cared  a  little,"  she  whispered 
between  her  paroxysms  of  sobbing;  "not  enough 
to  make  him  troublesome ;  but  enough  to  make  him 
pleased  to  marry  me,  on  any  terms.  Why  was 
he  so  indignant  and  aghast?  It  seemed  to  me 
quite  simple.  Well,  twenty-four  hours  of  suspense 
are  less  trying  than  forty -eight.  But — ^what  will 
he  decide?  Oh,  what  will  he  decide!  .  .  .  Sorry, 
but  you  can't  come  in,  Chappie;  I  am  not  visible 
to  any  one  just  now."  This  in  response  to  a 
persistent  trying  of  the  handle,  and  knocking 
at  the  door.  .  .  .  "Yes,  he  went  some  time 
ago."  .  .  .  "Yes,  in  the  dogcart."  .  .  .  "I  wish 
you  would  not  call  him  my  missionary.  I  am 
not  a  heathen  nation!"  .  .  .  "No,  he  did  not 
propose  to  me.  How  silly  you  are!"  ...  "Oh, 
I  am  glad  the  tea  was  good.     Yes,  we  will  find 


Diana's  High  Fence  143 

out  where  those  tea  cakes  can  be  had."  .  .  . 
"No;  he  has  not  once  called  me  'Diana.'"  .  .  . 
"Why,  'Miss  Rivers'  of  course!  Chappie,  if 
you  don't  go  away  this  very  moment,  I  shall  take 
down  Uncle  Falcon's  shot-gun  and  discharge 
both  barrels  through  the  panel  of  the  door  at 
tUe  exact  height  at  which  I  know  your  face  must 
be,  on  the  other  side!"  ...  "Of  course  I  can 
tell  by  your  voice,  even  had  I  not  heard  the  plump, 
that  you  are  now  on  your  knees.  I  shall  blow 
out  the  lower  panel."  .  .  .  "No,  I  am  not  com- 
muning with  spirits,  but  you  soon  will  be,  if  you 
don't  go  away!"  .  .  .  "Chappie!  In  ten  sec- 
onds, I  ring  the  bell;  and  when  Rodgers  answers 
it,  I  shall  order  him  to  take  you  by  the  arm,  and 
lead  you  upstairs!" 

As  Mrs.  Vane  rustled  indignantly  away,  and 
quiet  reigned  once  more,  Diana  buried  her  head 
again  in  the  scat  of  the  chair.  She  laughed  and 
wept,  alternately;  then  cried  bitterly:  "Ah,  it 
is  so  lonely — so  lonely!     Nobody  really  cares!" 

Then,  suddenly  she  remembered  that  she 
could  pray^pray,  with  a  new  right  of  access, 
to  One  Who  cared,  Whose  love  was  changeless; 
Whose  wisdom  was  infinite.  If  He  went  on  Ixifore, 
the  way  would  lx?come  clear. 

Her  morning  letters  lay  on  the  librar>'  table. 


144       The  Following  of  the  Star 

From  a  pile  of  Christmas  cards,  she  drew  out  one 
which  held  a  motto  for  the  swiftly  coming  year. 
She  breathed  it,  as  a  prayer,  and  her  troubled 
heart  grew  still. 

"Dear  Christ,  move  on  before! 

Ah,  let  me  follow  where  Thy  feet  have  trod; 
Thus  shall  I  find,  'mid  life's  perplexities, 
The  Golden  Pathway  of  the  Will  of  God. " 

After  that,  all  was  peace.     In  comparative  rest 
of  soul,  Diana  waited  David's  answer. 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 


THE  fire  burned  low,  in  the  study  grat;e. 
The  black  marble  clock  on  the  mantel- 
piece had  struck  midnight,  more  slowly  and 
sonorously  than  it  ever  sounded  the  hour  by  day. 
Each  stroke  had  seemed  a  knell — a  requiem  to 
bright  hopes  and  golden  prospects;  and  now  it 
slowly  and  distinctly  ticked  out  the  first  hour  of 
a  new  day. 

Sarah,  and  her  assistants,  had  long  been  sleeping 
soundly,  untroubled  by  any  difficult  questions  of 
casuistry. 

The  one  solitary'  watcher  beneath  the  roof  of 
Bramblcdcnc  Rcctor>'  sat  huddled  up  in  the 
Rector's  large  armchair,  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
his  head  in  his  hands. 

His  little  worn  Prayer-book  had  fallen  to  the 
floor,  unnoticed.  He  had  been  reading  the  mar- 
riage service.     The  Prayer-lxx)k  lay  on  its  back, 

at  his  feet,  open  at  the  Burial  of  the  Dead,  as  if 
'•  145 


146       The  Following  of  the  Star 

in  silent  suggestion  that  that  solemn  office  had 
an  important  bearing  on  the  case. 

The  fire  burned  low;  yet  David  did  not  bestir 
himself  to  give  it  any  attention.  The  hot  embers 
sank  together,  in  the  grate,  with  that  soimd  of 
finality  which  implies  no  further  attempt  to  keep 
alight — a  sitting-down  under  adverse  circum- 
stances, so  characteristic  of  human  nature,  and 
so  often  caused  by  the  absorbed  neglect  of  others. 

David  had  as  yet  arrived  at  no  definite  decision 
regarding  the  important  question  of  marriage 
with  Diana. 

He  had  reviewed  the  matter  from  every  possible 
standpoint.  Diana  had  begged  him  not  to  let 
the  question  become  an  impersonal  one — not 
to  consider  it  as  an  abstract  issue. 

There  had  been  little  need  for  that  request. 
Diana's  brilliant  personality  dominated  his  whole 
mental  vision,  just  as  the  sun,  bursting  through 
clouds,  illumines  a  grey  scene,  touching  and  gilding 
the  heretofore  dull  landscape,  with  unexpected 
glory. 

It  puzzled  David  to  find  that  he  could  not 
consider  his  own  plans,  his  most  vital  interests, 
as  apart  from  her.  The  whole  future  seemed  to 
hinge  upon  whether  she  were  to  be  happy  or 
disconsolate;  surrounded  by  the  delights  of  her 


The  Voice  in  the  Ni^^ht  147 


lovely  home,  or  cast  out  into  the  world,  alone 
and  comfortless. 

A  readjustment  had  suddenly  taken  place  in 
his  proportionate  view  of  things.  Hitherto,  Africa 
had  come  first ;  all  else,  his  own  life  included,  being 
a  mere  background. 

Now — Diana  stepped  forth,  in  golden  capitals; 
and  all  things  else  receded,  appearing  of  small 
importance;  all  save  his  sensitive  conscientious- 
ness; his  unwavering  determination  to  adhere 
to  the  right  and  to  shun  the  wrong. 

It  perplexed  David  that  this  should  be  so.  It  was 
an  experience  so  new  that  it  had  not  as  yet  found 
for  itself  a  name,  or  formulated  an  explanation. 

As  he  sat,  wrapt  in  thought,  in  the  armchair  in 
which  he  had  prepared  so  many  of  his  evening 
sermons,  she  became  once  more  his  Lady  of 
Mystcr\'.  He  reviewed  those  weeks,  realising, 
for  the  first  time,  that  the  thought  of  her  had 
never  left  him ;  that  the  desire  to  win  the  una  wak- 
ened soul  of  her  had  taken  foremost  ])lacc  in  his 
whole  ministry  at  Brambledcnc.  She  seemed 
enfolded  in  silent  shadows,  from  which  her  grey 
eyes  looked  out  at  him,  sometimes  cold,  critical, 
appraising,  incredulous;  sometimes  anxious,  np- 
pcaling,  sorrowful;  soft,  with  unshed  tears;  sad, 
with  imspokcn  longing. 


148        The  Following  of  the  Star 

Then — she  came  to  the  vestry;  and  his  Lady  of 
Mystery  vanished;  giving  place  to  Diana  Rivers, 
imperious,  vivid,  radiating  vitality  and  friendli- 
ness; and  when  he  reahsed  that  it  was  Httle  more 
than  forty-eight  hours  since  he  had  first  known 
her  name,  he  marvelled  at  the  closeness  of  the 
intimacy  into  which  she  had  drawn  him.  Yet, 
undoubtedly,  the  way  in  which  she  had  dominated 
his  mind  from  the  very  first,  was  now  accounted 
for  by  the  fact  that,  from  the  very  first,  she  had 
planned  to  involve  him  in  this  scheme  for  the 
unravelling  of  her  own  tangled  future. 

David  clenched  his  hands  and  battled  fiercely 
with  his  instinctive  anger  against  Diana  in  this 
matter.  It  tortured  him  to  remember  his  wistful 
gladness  at  the  appearance  of  an  obviously  un- 
accustomed worshipper,  in  the  holy  place  of 
worship;  and  later,  his  sacred  joy  in  the  thought 
that  he  was  just  the  Voice  sent  to  bring  the  mes- 
sage; and,  having  brought  it,  to  pass  on  unrecog- 
nised. Yet,  all  the  while,  he  had  been  the  tool 
she  intended  using  to  gain  her  own  ends;  while 
the  most  sacred  thing  in  his  whole  life,  was  the 
fact,  which,  chancing  to  become  known  to  her, 
had  led  her  to  pounce  upon  him  as  a  suitable 
instrument.  As  priest  and  as  man,  David  felt 
equally  outraged.     Yet  Diana's  frank  confession 


The  Voice  in  the  Night  149 

had  been  so  noble  in  its  truthfulness,  at  a  moment 
when  a  less  honourable  nature  would  have  been 
sorely  tempted  to  prevaricate,  that  David  had 
instantly  matched  it  with  a  forgiveness  equally 
noble,  and  now  fought  back  the  inclination  to 
retrospective  wrath. 

But  the  present  situation  must  be  faced.  She 
was  asking  him  to  do  this  thing. 

Could  he  refuse?  Could  he  leave  England 
knowing  he  had  had  it  in  his  power  to  do  her  so 
great  a  service,  to  make  the  whole  difference  in 
her  future  life,  to  rid  her  of  odious  obligations, 
to  right  an  obvious  wrong — and  yet,  he  had  re- 
fused? Could  he  sail  for  Africa,  leaving  Diana 
homeless;  confronted  by  hardships  of  all  kinds; 
perhaps  facing  untold  temptations?  The  beauti- 
ful heiress,  in  her  ovs-n  ancestral  home,  could  keep 
Rupert  Rivers  at  arm's  length,  if  she  chose.  But 
if  Ru[KTt  KJvcrs  reigned  at  Kiverscourt;  if  all 
she  held  so  dear,  and  would  miss  so  overwhelm- 
ingly, were  his;  if,  under  these  circumstances,  he 
set   himself  to  win   the  hospital   nurse ? 

David  clenched  his  cold  hands  and  ground  his 
teeth;  then  paused  amazed,  to  wonder  at  himself. 

Why  should  it  fill  him  with  imjwtent  fur>', 
to  contemplate  the  possibility  of  any  man  win- 
ning and  subjugating  Diana?     Had  she  infected 


150        The  Following  of  the  Star 

him    with    her    own    irrational    and   exaggerated 
views? 

The  more  he  thought  over  it,  the  more  clearly 
he  realised  that  this  thing  she  asked  of  him  would 
undoubtedly  bring  good — infinite  good — to  her- 
self; to  the  many  dependants  on  the  Riverscourt 
estate;  to  the  surrounding  villages,  where,  as 
each  living  became  vacant,  she  would  seek  to 
place  earnest  men,  true  preachers  of  the  Word, 
faithful  tenders  of  the  flock.  It  would  bring 
untold  good  to  his  own  poor  waiting  people,  in 
that  dark  continent,  eagerly  longing  for  more 
light.  To  all  whom  his  voice  could  sway,  whom 
her  money  could  benefit,  whom  their  united 
efforts  could  reach,  this  step  would  mean  immeas- 
urable gain.  Nobody  walked  the  earth  whom 
it  could  wrong.  He  recalled,  with  unexpected 
clearness  of  detail,  a  lengthy  account  of  Rupert 
Rivers,  given  him  in  that  very  room  by  his  gar- 
rulous host,  during  the  only  evening  they  spent 
together.  At  the  time  it  had  made  no  impression 
upon  an  intentionally  inattentive  mind;  but  now 
it  came  up  from  his  subconsciousness,  and  provided 
him  with  important  information.  If  Mr.  Golds- 
worthy's  facts  were  correct,  Rupert  Rivers  already 
possessed  more  money  than  was  good  for  him, 
and  Hved  the  life  of  a  gay  spendthrift,  having 


The  Voice  in  the  Nio^ht  151 


t>' 


chambers  in  touii,  a  small  shooting-box  in  Scotland ; 
much  of  his  time  being  spent  abroad,  flitting  from 
scene  to  scene,  and  from  pleasure  to  pleasure,  with 
absolutely  no  sense  of  responsibility,  and  no  re- 
gard for  the  welfare  of  others.  His  one  redeeming 
point  appeared  to  be:  that  he  wanted  to  many- 
Diana.     But  that  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

Again  David's  hands  clenched,  painfully.  Why 
was  it  such  sudden  fierce  agony  to  contemplate 
Diana  as  the  wife  of  Rupert  Rivers?  That  be- 
wildered question  throbbed  unanswered  into  the 
now  chilly  room. 

Yes,  undoubtedly,  it  would  mean  untold  gain 
to  many;  loss  to  none.  But  no  sooner  did  his 
mind  arrive  at  the  ix)ssibility  of  agreeing  to 
Diana's  suggestion,  than  up  rose,  and  stalked 
before  him,  the  spectre  of  mockery;  the  demon  of 
unreality;  the  ghastly  horror,  to  the  mind  of  the 
earnest  priest,  of  having  to  stand  before  God's 
altar,  there  to  utter  solemn  words,  under  circum- 
stances which  would  make  of  tho.sc  words  a  hollow 
mockery,  an  impious  unreality.  The  position 
would  be  difTercnt,  had  he  but  a  warrant  for  be- 
lieving that  any  conditions  could  justify  him,  in 
the  sight  of  God,  in  entering  into  the  holy  bond 
of  marriage  for  reasons  olluT  than  those  for  which 
matrimony  was  ordained. 


152        The  Following  of  the  Star 

For  a  moment,  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty  had 
suggested  itself,  in  the  registry-office;  but  he  had 
not  harboured  the  thought  for  many  seconds. 
An  act  which  could  not  face  the  light  of  God's 
holy  chiirch,  most  certainly  could  not  stand  in  the 
light  of  the  judgment  day. 

The  Rector's  black  marble  clock  struck  one. 

David  shivered.  One  hour  had  already  passed 
of  the  day  on  which  he  had  promised  to  give 
Diana  his  decision;  yet,  after  hours  of  delib- 
eration, he  was  no  nearer  arriving  at  any  definite 
conclusion. 

"My  God,"  he  prayed,  "give  me  light.  Ah, 
give  me  a  clear  unmistakable  revelation  of  Thy 
will!" 

The  hours  from  one  to  two,  and  from  two  to 
three,  are  apt  to  hold  especial  terrors  for  troubled 
souls — for  lonely  watchers,  keeping  vigil.  This 
is  the  time  of  earth's  completest  silence,  and  the 
sense  of  the  nearness  of  the  spirit-world  seems 
able  to  make  itself  more  intimately  felt 

The  cheerful  cock  has  not  yet  bestirred  himself 
to  crow;  the  dawn  has  made  no  rift  in  the  heavy 
blackness  of  the  sky. 

The    Prince    of   Darkness   invades  the  world, 


The  Voice  in  the  Night  153 

unhindered.  The  Hosts  of  Light  stand  by,  with 
folded  wings;  their  gHttering  swords  close  sheathed. 
"This  is  your  hour,  and  the  hour  of  darkness." 
Murder,  robbery,  lust,  and  every  form  of  sin, 
lift  their  heads,  unafraid. 

Christian  souls,  waking,  shudder  in  nameless 
fear;  then  whisper: 

"Keep  me,  O  keep  me,  King  of  Kings, 
Beneath  Thine  Own  almighty  wings!" 

and  sleep  again,  in  peace. 

Next  comes  the  coldest  hour — the  hour  before 
the  dawn.  This  is  the  hour  of  passing  souls. 
Death,  drawing  near,  enters  unchecked;  and, 
ere  the  day  breaks  and  busy  life  begins  to  stir 
again,  the  souls  he  has  come  to  fetch,  pass  out 
with  him;  and  weary  watchers  close  the  eyes 
which  will  never  sec  another  sunrising,  and  fold 
the  hands  whose  day's  work  in  the  world  is  over. 

All  life,  in  this  hour,  is  at  its  lowest  ebb. 

From  one  to  two,  David  prayed:  "Give  me 
light!     Oh,  my  God,  give  me  light!" 

Evil  thoughts,  Satanic  suggestions,  diabolic  whis- 
perings, swarmed  aroimd  him,  but  failed  to  force 
an  entrance  into  the  guarded  garrison  of  his  mind. 

The  clock  stnick  two. 


154       The  Following  of  the  Star 

The  study  lamp  grew  dim,  flickered  spasmodi- 
cally; and,  finally,  went  out.  David  reached 
for  matches,  and  lighted  one  candle  on  the  table 
at  his  elbow. 

He  saw  his  Prayer-book  on  the  floor,  picked 
it  up,  and  glanced  at  the  open  page.  "Foras- 
much as  it  hath  pleased  Almighty  God  of  His 
great  mercy  to  take  unto  Himself  the  soul  of 
our   dear   brother   here   departed,    we   therefore 

commit  his  body  to  the  ground " 

David  smiled.  It  seemed  so  simple  a  solution 
to  all  earthly  difficulties: — "we  therefore  commit 
his  body  to  the  ground."  It  promised  peace  at 
the  last. 

Who  would  read  those  words,  over  the  forest 
grave  in  Central  Africa?  Would  he  be  borne, 
feet  foremost,  down  the  aisle  of  the  Church  of 
the  Holy  Star — his  chtirch  and  Diana's — or  would 
he  be  carried  straight  from  his  own  hut  to  the 
open  grave  beneath  the  mighty  trees?  It  would 
not  matter  at  all  to  his  wasted  body,  which  it 
was;  but,  ah,  how  much  it  would  matter  to  the 
people  he  left  behind! 

"Oh  God,  give  me  light — give  me  hght!" 

The  clock  struck  three. 

The    study    grate   was   black.     The    last    red 
ember  had  burned  itself  out. 


The  Voice  in  the  Night  155 

David  shuddered.  He  was  too  completely 
lost  to  outward  things  to  be  conscious  of  the  cold ; 
but  he  shuddered  in  unison  with  the  many  passing 
souls. 

Then  a  sense  of  peace  stole  over  his  spirit. 
He  lifted  his  head  from  his  hands,  leaned  back  in 
the  Rector's  armchair,  and  fell  into  a  light  sleep. 
He  was  completely  odiausted,  in  mind  and  body. 

"Send  me  light,  my  Lord,"  he  murmured  for 
the  last   time;  and  fell  asleep. 

He  did  not  hear  the  clock  strike  four;  but,  a 
few  moments  later,  he  was  awakened  by  a  voice 
in  the  silent  room,  saying,  slowly  and  distinctly, 
in  tones  of  sublime  tenderness:  "Son  of  man!" 

David,  instantly  wide  awake,  started  up,  and 
sat  listening.  The  solitary  candle  failed  to  il- 
lumine the  distant  comers  of  the  study,  but  was 
reflected  several  times  in  the  glass  doors  of  the 
book -cases. 

David  pushed  back  his  tumbled  hair.  "Speak 
again,"  he  said,  in  tones  of  awe  and  wonder. 
Then,  as  his  own  voice  broke  the  silence,  he 
realised  that  the  voice  which  had  waked  him  had 
not  stirred  the  waves  of  outward  .sound,  but  had 
vibrated  on  the  atmosphere  of  his  inner  spirit - 
chamber,  reaching,  with  intense  distinctness,  the 


156        l^he  Following  of  the  Star 

hearing  of  his  soul.  He  lay  back,  and  closed  his 
eyes. 

"Son  of  man!"  said  the  voice  again. 

This  time  David  did  not  stir.  He  listened  in 
calm  intentness. 

"Son  of  man,"  said  the  low  tender  tones  again; 
"behold,  I  take  away  from  thee  the  desire  of 
thine  eyes  with  a  stroke." 

Then  David  knew  where  he  was.  He  sat  up, 
eagerly;  drew  the  candle  close  to  him;  took  out 
his  pocket-Bible;  and,  turning  to  the  twenty- 
fourth  chapter  of  Ezekiel,  read  the  whole  passage. 

"Son  of  man,  behold,  I  take  away  from  thee 
the  desire  of  thine  eyes  with  a  stroke:  yet  neither 
shalt  thou  mourn  nor  weep,  neither  shall  thy 
tears  run  down.  Forbear  to  cry,  make  no 
mourning  for  the  dead,  bind  the  tire  of  thine  head 
upon  thee,  and  put  on  thy  shoes  upon  thy  feet, 
and  cover  not  thy  lips,  and  eat  not  the  bread  of 
men. 

"So  I  spake  unto  the  people  in  the  morning; 
and  at  even  my  wife  died :  and  I  did  in  the  morning 
as  I  was  commanded. 

"And  the  people  said  unto  me:  Wilt  thou  not 
tell  us  what  these  things  are  to  us,  that  thou 
doest  so?  Then  I  answered  them.  The  word  of 
the  Lord  came  unto  me  saying:  Speak  unto  the 


The  \'oicc  in  the  Night  157 

house  of  Israel :  Thus  saith  the  Lord  God :  .  .  . 
Ezekiel  is  unto  you  a  sign:  according  to  all  that 
he  hath  done,  shall  ye  do;  and  when  this  cometh, 
ye  shall  know  that  I  am  the  Lord. 

"Also,  thou  son  of  man,  shall  it  not  be  in  the 
day  when  I  take  from  them  their  strength,  the 
joy  of  their  glory,  the  desire  of  their  eyes,  and 
that  whereupon  they  set  their  minds.  ...  In 
that  day  shall  thy  mouth  be  opened,  .  .  .  and 
thou  shalt  speak  .  .  .  and  thou  shalt  be  a  sign 
unto  them;  and  they  shall  know  that  I  am  the 
Lord." 

As  David  read  this  most  touching  of  all  Old 
Testament  stories,  his  mind  was  absorbed  at 
first  in  the  tragedy  of  the  simply  told,  yet  vivid 
picture.  The  young  prophet,  standing  faithfully 
at  his  post,  preaching  to  a  stiflF-necked,  hard- 
hearted people,  though  knowing,  all  the  while, 
how  rapidly  the  shadow  of  a  great  sorrow  was 
drawing  near  unto  his  own  heart  and  home. 
The  Desire  of  his  eyes— how  tenderly  that  de- 
scribed the  young  wife  who  lay  dying  at  home. 
He  who  knoweth  the  hearts  of  men,  knew  she  was 
just  that  to  him.  Each  moment  of  that  ebbing 
life  was  precious;  yet  the  young  preacher  must 
remain  and  preach;  he  must  yield  to  no  anguish 


158       The  Following  of  the  Star 

of  anxiety ;  he  must  show  no  sign  of  woe.  Through- 
out that  long  hard  day,  he  stood  the  test.  And 
then — in  the  grand  unvarnished  simplicity  of 
Old  Testament  tragedy — he  records  quite  simply: 
"And,  at  even,  my  wife  died;  and  I  did  in  the 
morning,  as  I  was  commanded."  A  veil  is  drawn 
over  the  night  of  anguish,  but — "I  did  in  the 
morning,  as  I  was  commanded." 

David,  as  he  read,  felt  his  soul  attune  with  the 
soul  of  that  young  prophet  of  long  ago.  He  also 
had  had  a  long  night  of  conflict  and  of  vigil. 
He,  also,  would  do  in  the  morning  as  he  was 
commanded. 

Then,  suddenly — suddenly — he  saw  light ! 

Here  was  a  marriage  tie,  close,  tender,  perfect; 
broken,  apparently  for  no  reason  which  concerned 
the  couple  themselves,  for  nothing  connected  with 
the  causes  for  which  matrimony  was  ordained; 
broken  simply  for  the  sake  of  others;  solely  in 
order  that  the  preacher  might  himself  be  the 
text  of  his  own  sermon;  standing  before  the 
people,  bereaved,  yet  not  mourning;  stricken 
suddenly,  all  unprepared — in  order  that  he  might 
be  a  living  sign  to  all  men  who  should  see  and 
question,  of  Jehovah's  dealings  with  themselves. 

David's  mind,  accustomed  to  reason  by  in- 
duction, especially  on  theological  points,  grasped 


The  Voice  in  the  Night  159 

this  at  once:  that  if  the  marriage  tie  could  be 
broken  by  God's  direction,  for  purposes  of  influence, 
and  for  the  sake  of  bringing  good  to  others,  it 
might  equally  be  formed  for  the  same  reasons — 
unselfish,  pure,  idealistic — without  the  man  and 
the  woman,  who  for  these  causes  entered  into  the 
tie,  finding  themselves,  in  so  doing,  outside  the 
WiU  or  the  Word  of  God. 

From  that  moment  David  never  doubted  that 
he  might  agree  to  Diana's  proposal. 

To  many  minds  would  have  come  the  suggestion 
that  the  20th  century  differed  from  ancient  times; 
that  the  circumstances  of  the  prophet  Ezekiel 
were  probably  dissimilar,  in  all  essentials,  to  his 
own.  But  David  had  all  his  life  lived  very  simply 
by  Bible  rules.  The  revealed  Will  of  God  seemed 
to  him  to  hold  good  through  all  the  centuries,  and 
to  apply  to  all  circumstances,  in  all  times.  His 
case  and  Diana's  was  unique;  and  this  one  in- 
stance which,  to  him,  seemed  clearly  apphcable, 
at  once  contented  him. 

lie  laid  his  ojK-n  Biljle  beside  the  candle  on  the 
table. 

"I  shall  say  'Vos. '"  he  s.'ii(l,  aloud.  "How 
pleased  she  will  lx\"  He  could  see  her  face, 
radiant  in  its  fair  Ix^uty. 

"The  Desire  of  ihinc  eyes."     What  a  perfect 


i6o        The  Following  of  the  Star 

description  of  a  man's  absorbing  love  for  a  woman. 
Two  months  ago,  he  would  not  have  imderstood 
it ;  but  he  remembered  now  how  he  used  to  look 
forw-ard,  all  the  week,  to  the  first  sight,  on  Sun- 
day evening,  of  the  sweet  face  and  queenly  head 
of  his  Lady  of  Mystery,  in  her  comer  beside  the 
stone  pillar.  And  on  Christmas-eve,  when  he 
stood  in  the  snow,  imder  the  shadow  of  the  old 
lich-gate,  while  the  footman  flashed  up  the 
lights  in  the  interior  of  the  car,  and  her  calm 
loveliness  was  revealed  among  the  furs.  Then 
these  two  days  of  intimacy  had  shown  him  so 
much  of  vivid  charm  in  that  gay,  perfect  face,  as 
she  laughed  and  talked,  or  hushed  into  gentle 
earnestness.  She  had  talked  for  so  long — ^he 
sitting  watching  her;  he  knew  all  her  expressive 
movements;  her  ways  of  turning  her  head  quickly, 
or  of  lowering  her  eyelids,  and  hiding  those  soft 
clear  eyes.  To-day — this  very  day — ^he  would 
see  her  again;  and  every  anxious  cloud  would 
lift,  when  she  heard  his  decision.  Her  grateful 
look  would  beam  upon  him. 

"The  Desire  of  thine  eyes."  Yes;  it  was  a 
truly   Divine  description  of  a  man's 

Suddenly  David  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"My  God!"  he  cried;  "I  love  Diana!" 

The  revelation  was  overwhelming  in  its  sudden- 


The  \'oicc  in  the  Nicrht  i6i 


i)' 


ness.  Having  resolved  upon  a  life  of  celibacy,  his 
mental  attitude  towards  women  had  never  con- 
templated the  possibility  of  this.  He  had  stepped 
fearlessly  out  into  this  friendship,  at  the  call  of 
her  need,  and  of  his  duty.     And  now 

He  stood  quite  still  in  the  chill  silence  of  the 
dimly  lighted  study,  and  faced  the  fact. 

"I — love — Diana!  And,  in  two  weeks,  I  am 
to  wed  Diana.  And  a  few  hours  aftenvards,  I 
am  to  leave  Diana — for  ever!  'Son  of  man,  be- 
hold I  take  away  from  thee  the  Desire  of  thine 
eyes  with  a  stroke.'  To  sail  for  Central  Africa; 
and  never  to  look  u\nm  her  face  again — the  face 
of  my  own  wife.  'And  at  even  my  wife  died.' 
But  my  wife  will  not  die,"  said  David.  "Thank 
God,  it  is  I  who  bring  the  offering  of  myrrh. 
Because  of  this  that  I  can  do  for  her,  my  wife 
will  live,  rich,  happy,  contented,  useful.  Ikr 
home,  her  wealth,  her  hai)py  life,  will  be  my  gift 
to  her.  But — if  Diana  knew  I  loved  her,  she  would 
never  accept  this  service  from  mc." 

David  had  been  i)acing  the  room.  He  now 
stood  still,  leaning  his  hands  on  the  table,  where 
glimmered  the  one  candle. 

"Can  I."  he  said,  slowly,  asking  himself  de- 
liberately the  question:  "Can  I  carry  this  thing 
through,  without  letting  Diana  suspect  how  much 


i62        The  Following  of  the  Star 

more  it  means  to  me,  than  she  intends ;  how  much 
more  than  it  means  to  her?  Can  I  wed  the  Desire 
of  mine  eyes  in  the  morning,  look  my  last  upon 
her  in  the  afternoon,  and  leave  her,  without  her 
knowing  that  I  love  her?" 

He  asked  himself  the  question,  slowly,  delib- 
erately, leaning  heavily  on  the  study  table. 

Then  he  stood  erect,  his  head  thrown  back,  his 
deep  eyes  shining,  and  answered  the  question 
with  another. 

"Is  there  anything  a  man  cannot  do  for  the 
woman  he  loves?"  said  David  Rivers. 

He  went  to  the  window,  drew  back  the  heavy 
rep  curtains,  unbarred  the  shutters,  and  looked 
out. 

There  was,  as  yet,  no  sign  of  dawn,  but  through 
the  frosty  pane,  right  before  him,  as  a  lamp  in 
the  purple  sky,  shone  the  bright  morning  star. 

Cold  though  he  was,  stiff  from  his  long  night 
vigil,  David  threw  up  the  window-sash,  that  he 
might  see  the  star  shine  clearly,  undimmed  by 
frosty  fronds,  traced  on  the  window-pane. 

He  dropped  on  one  knee,  folding  his  arms  upon 
the  woodwork  of  the  sill. 

"My  God,"  he  said,  looking  upward,  his  eyes 
on  the  morning  star;  "I  thank  Thee  for  light; 
I   thank   Thee   for  love;   I   thank  Thee  for  the 


The  \'oicc  in  the  Nicrht  163 


&' 


guiding  star!  I  thank  Thee,  that  heavenly  love 
and  earthly  love  can  meet,  in  one  bright  radiant 
Ideal.  I  thank  Thee  that,  expecting  nothing  in 
return,  I  love  Diana!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

SUSPENSE 

* '  WOU  old  flirt ! "  laughed  Diana.  "How  many 
'  more  hearts  of  men  do  you  contemplate 
capturing,  before  you  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil? 
Chappie,  you  are  a  hardened  old  sinner !  However, 
I  suppose  if  one  had  committed  matrimony 
three  times  already,  one  would  feel  able  to  continue 
doing  so,  with  impimity,  as  many  more  times  as 
circumstances  allowed.  Did  poor  old  Dr.  Dap- 
perly  actually  propose?" 

Mrs.  Marmaduke  Vane  smiled  complacently, 
as  she  put  a  heaped-up  spoonful  of  whipped  cream 
into  her  coffee. 

"He  made  his  meaning  very  clear,  my  dear 
Diana,"  she  whispered  hoarsely;  "and  he  held 
my  arm  more  tightly  than  was  necessary,  as  he 
assisted  me  to  the  motor.  He  remarked  that 
the  front  steps  were  slippery;  but  they  were  not. 
A  liberal  supply  of  gravel  had  been  placed  upon 
them." 

"Had    he    been    having    much    champagne?" 
164 


Suspense  165 

asked  Diana.  "Oh,  no,  I  remember!  It  was 
tea,  not  dinner.  One  does  not  require  to  hold 
on  to  people's  arms  tightly  when  going  down 
steps  with  a  liberal  supply  of  gravel  on  them, 
after  tea.  Chappie  dear,  congratulations!  I 
think  it  must  be  a  case." 

"He  made  his  meaning  very  clear,"  repeated 
Mrs.  Vane,  helping  herself  to  omelet  and  mush- 
rooms. 

"Isn't  it  rather  hard  on  god-papa?"  inquired 
Diana,  her  eyes  dancing. 

"I  have  a  great  respect  for  Mr.  Golds  worthy, " 
whispered  Mrs.  Vane,  solemnly;  "and  I  should 
grieve  to  wound  or  to  disappoint  him.  But  you 
see — there  was  Sarah." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Diana;  "of  course;  there  was 
Sarah.     And  Sarah  has  god-paj)a  well  in  hand." 

"She  is  an  imiK?rtinent  woman,"  said  Mrs. 
Vane;  "and  requires  keeping  in  hor  place." 

"Oh,  what  hai^jK'ned?"  cried  Diana.  "Do 
tell   me.  Chappie  dear!" 

But  Mrs.  V^anc  shook  her  head,  rattling  htr 
bangles  as  she  attacked  a  cold  pheasant;  and 
declined  to  tell  "what  happened." 

The  morning  sun  shone  brightly  in  through 
the  oriel  window  of  the  pleasant  breakfast -room, 
touching  to  gold  Diana's  shining  hair,  and  causing 


i66        The  Following  of  the  Star 

the  delicate  tracery  of  frost  to  vanish  quickly 
from  the  window-panes. 

Breakfast-time,  that  supreme  test  of  health — 
mental  and  physical — always  foimd  Diana  radiant. 
She  delighted  in  the  beginning  of  each  new  day. 
Her  vigorous  vitality,  reinforced  by  the  night's 
rest,  brought  her  to  breakfast  in  such  overflowing 
spirits,  that  Mrs.  Vane — who  suffered  from  lassi- 
tude, and  never  felt  "herself"  imtil  after  limcheon 
— would  often  have  found  it  a  trying  meal,  had 
she  not  had  the  consolations  of  a  bountiful  table, 
and  a  boundless  appetite. 

On  this  particular  morning,  however,  a  more 
observant  person  might  have  noted  a  restless 
anxiety  underlying  Diana's  gaiety.  She  glanced 
often  at  the  clock;  looked  through  her  pile  of 
letters,  but  left  them  all  unopened;  gazed  long 
and  yearningly  at  the  wide  expanse  of  snowy 
park,  and  at  the  leafless  arms  of  ancient  spreading 
trees;  drank  several  cups  of  strong  coffee,  and  ate 
next  to  nothing. 

This  was  the  day  which  would  decide  her  fate. 
Before  evening  she  would  know  whether  this 
lovely  and  beloved  home  would  remain  hers, 
or  whether  she  must  lose  all,  and  go  out  to  face 
a  Ufe  of  comparative  poverty. 

If  David  had  taken  the  nine  o'clock  train  he 


Suspense  167 

was  now  on  his  way  to  town,  to  consult  Sir  Deryck 
Brand. 

What  would  be  Sir  Deryxk's  opinion?  She 
knew  him  for  a  man  of  many  ideals,  holding 
particularly  exalted  views  of  marriage  and  of  the 
relation  of  man  to  woman.  On  the  other  hand, 
his  judgment  was  clear  and  well-balanced;  he 
abhorred  morbidness  of  any  kind ;  his  view  of 
the  question  would  not  be  ecclesiastical;  and  his 
very  genuine  friendship  for  herself  would  hold 
a  strong  brief  in  her  behalf. 

No  two  men  could  be  more  unlike  one  another 
than  David  Rivers  and  Dcr>'ck  Brand.  They 
were  the  two  on  earth  of  whom  she  held  the  high- 
est opinion.  She  trusted  both,  and  knew  she 
might  rely  implicitly  upon  the  faithful  friend- 
ship of  either.  Yet  her  heart  stood  still,  as  she 
realised  that  her  whole  future  hung  upon  the  con- 
clusion reached  in  the  conversation  to  take  place, 
that  very  morning,  between  these  two  men. 

She  could  almost  .s<.*c  the  consulting  room  in 
the  doctor's  house  in  Wimjxjle  Street;  the  doctor's 
calm  strong  face,  as  he  listened  intently  to  David's 
statement  of  the  case.  There  would  be  violets 
on  the  doctor's  tabic;  and  his  finger-tips  would 
meet  very  exactly,  as  he  leaned  back  in  liis 
revolving  chair. 


1 68        The  Following  of  the  Star 

David  would  look  very  thin  and  slight,  in  the 
large  armchair,  upholstered  in  dark  green  leather, 
which  had  contained  so  many  anxious  bodies, 
during  the  process  of  unfolding  and  revealing 
troubled  minds.  David  would  tie  himself  up  in 
knots,  during  the  conversation.  He  would  cross 
one  thin  leg  over  the  other,  clasping  the  upper- 
most knee  with  long  nervous  fingers.  The  white- 
ness of  his  forehead  would  accentuate  the  beautiful 
wavy  line  of  his  thick  black  hair.  Sir  Deryck 
would  see  at  once  in  his  eyes  that  look  of  the 
mystic,  the  enthusiast;  and  Sir  Deryck's  common- 
sense  would  come  down  like  a  sledge-hammer! 
Ah,  God  grant  it  might  come  down  like  a  sledge- 
hammer! Yet,  if  David  had  made  up  his  mind, 
it  would  take  more  than  a  sledge-hammer  to 
bend  or  to  break  it. 

Mrs.  Vane  passed  her  cup  for  more  coffee, 
as  she  concluded  a  detailed  account  of  all  she 
had  had  for  tea  at  Eversleigh,  the  day  before. 
"And  really,  my  dear  Diana,"  she  whispered, 
"if  we  could  find  out  where  to  obtain  those 
scones,  it  would  give  us  just  cause  to  look  forward 
every  day,  to  half-past  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. " 

"We  will  find  out,"  cried  Diana,  gaily.  "Who 
would  miss  hours  of  daily  anticipation  for  lack 


Suspense  169 

of  a  little  judicious  pumping  of  the  households 
of  our  friends?  We  have  but  to  instruct  my 
maid  to  call  upon  their  cook.  The  thing  is 
as  good  as  done!  You  may  embark  upon  your 
pleasurable  anticipations,  Chappie.  ...  If  I 
were  as  stout  as  you,  dear,  I  should  take  one 
spoonful  of  cream,  rather  than  two.  .  .  .  But, 
as  we  are  anticipating,  tell  me:  What  is  to 
become  of  me,  after  I  have  duly  been  bridesmaid 
at  your  wedding?  I  shall  have  to  advertise 
for  a  stately  but  plain  chaperon,  who  will  not 
be  snapped  up  by  all  the  young  sparks  of  the 
neighbourhood. " 

Mrs.  Marmaduke  Vane's  many  chains  and 
necklets  tinkled  with  the  upheaval  of  her  de- 
lighted laughter. 

"Foa-foolish  girl!"  she  whispered,  spasmodic- 
ally. "Why.  of  course,  you  must  get  married, 
too." 

"Not  I,  .sir,"  laughed  Diana.  "You  will  not 
find  me  imjx^rting  a  lord  and  master  into  my 
ovm  domain.  My  lil)crty  is  too  dear  unto  me. 
And  who  but  a  Rivers,  should  reign  at  Rivers- 
court?" 

"Marry  your  cousin,  child,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Vane,  hoarsely.  "One  of  your  silly  ol^jcctions 
to    marriage    is    changing    your    name.     Well — 


170       The  Following  of  the  Star 

marry  your  cousin,  child,  and  remain  Diana 
Rivers." 

"Your  advice  is  excellent,  dear  Chappie.  But 
we  must  lose  no  time  in  laying  your  proposition 
before  my  cousin.  He  sails  for  Central  Africa 
in  ten  days." 

"Gracious  heavens!"  cried  Mrs.  Vane,  sur- 
prised out  of  her  usual  thick  whisper.  "I  do 
not  mean  the  thin  missionary!     I  mean  Rupert!" 

"Rupert,  we  have  many  times  discussed  and 
dismissed,"  said  Diana.  "The  'thin  missionary,' 
as  you  very  aptly  call  my  cousin  David,  is  quite 
a  new  proposition.  The  idea  is  excellent  and 
appeals  to  me.     Let  us " 

The  butler  stood  at  her  elbow  with  a  telegram 
on  a  salver. 

She  took  it;  opened  it,  and  read  it  swiftly. 

"No  answer,  Rodgers;  but  I  will  see  Knox  in 
the  hall,  in  five  minutes.  Let  us  adjourn,  my 
dear  Chappie.  I  have  a  full  morning  before  me; 
and,  by  your  leave,  I  intend  spending  it  in  the 
seclusion  of  the  library.  We  shall  meet  at 
luncheon. " 

Diana  moved  swiftly  across  the  hall,  and  stood 
in  the  recess  of  a  bay  window  overlooking  the 
park. 

She  heard  Mrs.  Vane  go  panting  and  tinkling 


Suspense  171 

upstairs,  and  close  the  door  of  her  boudoir.  Then 
she  drew  David's  message  from  the  envelope, 
and  read  it  again. 

"If  convenient  kindly  send  motor  for  me  early 
this  morning.  Not  going  to  town.  Consulta- 
tion im necessary.     Have  decided." 

Diana  screwed  the  paper  and  envelope  into  two 
little  hard  balls,  between  her  strong  white  fingers. 

''Have  decided."  Those  two  words  were  rock 
impregnable,  when  said  by  David  Rivers.  No 
cannon  of  argument;  no  shrapnel  of  tears;  no 
battery  of  promises  or  reproaches,  would  prevail 
against  the  stronghold  of  his  will,  if  David  Rivers 
had  decided  that  he  ought  to  refuse  her  request. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  words,  "Consultation 
unnecessary,"  implied  an  adverse  decision;  be- 
cause, had  he  come  round  to  her  view  of  the 
matter,  he  would  have  wished  it  confirmed  by 
vSir  Dcryck's  calm  judgment;  whereas,  if  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  refuse,  owing  to  conscien- 
tious reasons,  no  contrary  opinion,  expressed  by 
another,  would  serve  to  turn  him  from  his  own 
idea  of  right. 

Already  Diana  seemed  to  Ix?  looking  her  last, 
on  her  childhood's  lovely  and  Movi^d  home. 

She  turned  from  the  window  as  her  chauffeiu* 
stepped  into  the  hall. 


172        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"Knox, "  she  said,  "you  will  motor  immediately 
to  Brambledene,  to  fetch  Mr.  Rivers  from  the 
Rectory.  He  wishes  to  see  me  on  a  matter  of 
business.  His  time  is  valuable;  so  do  not  lose  a 
moment." 

The  automaton  in  leather  livery  lifted  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  in  respectful  salute;  turned 
smartly  on  his  heel,  and  disappeared  through  a 
swing-door.  Five  minutes  later,  Diana  saw  her 
Napier  car  flying  down  the  avenue. 

And  soon — she  would  be  chasing  after  omni- 
buses, in  the  Euston  Road.  And  grimy  men, 
with  no  touch  to  their  caps,  would  give  her  five 
dirty  coppers  for  her  sixpence;  and  a  grubby 
ticket,  with  a  hole  punched  in  it. 

And  David  Rivers  would  be  in  Central  Africa, 
educating  savages.  And  it  could  have  made  no 
possible  difference  to  him,  to  have  stood  beside 
her  for  a  few  minutes,  in  an  empty  church,  and 
repeated  a  few  words,  entailing  no  after  conse- 
quences; whereas  to  her 

Diana's  beautiful  white  teeth  bit  into  her 
lower  lip.  She  had  always  been  accustomed  to 
men  who  did  her  bidding,  without  any  "Why"  or 
"  Wherefore. "  Yet  she  could  not  feel  angry  with 
David  Rivers.  He  and  his  Lord  were  so  one  in 
her  mind.   Whatever  they  decided  must  be  right. 


Suspense  173 

As  she  crossed  the  hall,  on  her  way  to  the  stair- 
case, she  met  the  butler. 

"Rodgers, "  she  said,  "Mr.  Rivers  wishes  to 
see  me  on  business  this  morning.  He  will  be 
here  in  about  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  When 
he  arrives  show  him  into  the  library,  and  see  that 
we  are  not  disturbed." 

Diana  mounted  the  stairs.  Every  line  of  carv- 
ing on  the  dark  oak  balustrades  was  dear  and 
was  familiar. 

The  clear  wintry  sun  shone  through  stained 
glass  windows  on  the  first  landing,  representing 
Rivers  knights,  in  silver  armour,  leaning  on 
their  shields.  One  of  these,  with  a  red  cross  upon 
his  breast,  his  plumed  helmet  held  in  his  arm,  his 
close-cropped  dark  head  rising  firm  and  strong 
above  his  corselet,  was  not  unlike  David  Rivers. 

"Ah,"  said  Diana,  "if  he  had  but  cared  a 
little!  Not  enough  to  make  him  troublesome; 
but  just  enough  to  make  him  glad  to  do  Uiis 
thing  for  me." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

David's  decision 

r\IANA  found  it  quite  impossible  to  await 
*-^     in  the  library,   the  return  of  the  motor. 

She  moved  restlessly  to  and  fro  in  her  own 
bedroom,  from  the  windows  of  which  she  could 
see  far  down  the  avenue. 

When  at  last  her  car  came  speeding  through 
the  trees,  it  seemed  to  her  a  swiftly  approaching 
Nemesis,  a  relentless  hurrying  Fate,  which  she 
could  neither  delay  nor  avoid.  It  ran  beneath 
the  portico;  paused  for  one  moment;  then  glided 
away  towards  the  garage.  She  had  not  seen 
David  alight;  but  she  knew  he  must  now  be  in 
the  house. 

She  waited  a  few  moments,  then  passed  slowly 
down  the  stairs. 

Oh,  lovely  and  belovM  home  of  childhood's 
days! 

White   and    cold,    yet   striving   bravely   after 
174 


David's  Decision  175 

complete  self-control,  Diana  crossed  the  hall, 
and  turned  the  handle  of  the  library  door. 

As  she  entered,  David  was  standing  with  his 
back  to  her,  looking  up  intently  at  the  portrait 
of  Falcon  Rivers. 

He  turned  as  he  heard  the  door  close,  and  came 
forward,  a  casual  remark  upon  his  lips,  ex- 
pressing the  hope  that  it  had  not  been  incon- 
venient to  send  the  motor  so  early — then  saw 
Diana's  face. 

Instantly  he  took  her  trembling  hands  in  his, 
Siiying  gently:  "It  is  all  right,  Miss  Rivers.  I 
can  do  as  you  wish.  I  am  quite  clear  about  it, 
to-day.  You  must  forgive  me  for  not  having 
been  able  to  decide  yesterday." 

Diana  drew  away  her  hands  and  clasped  them 
upon  her  breast. 

Her  eyes  dilated. 

"David?  Oh,  David!  You  will?  You  will! 
You  will 1" 

Her  voice  broke.  She  gazed  at  him,  helplessly 
— dumbly. 

David's  eyes,  as  he  looked  back  into  hers,  were 
so  calmly  tender,  that  it  somehow  gave  her  the 
feeling  of  being  a  little  child.  His  voice  was  very 
steadfast  and  unfaltering.  He  smiled  reassur- 
ingly at  Diana. 


176        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"I  hope  to  have  the  honour  and  privilege, 
Miss  Rivers,"  he  said,  "of  marrying  you  on  the 
morning  of  the  day  I  sail  for  Central  Africa." 

Diana  swayed,  for  one  second;  then  recovered, 
and  walked  over  to  the  mantel-piece. 

Not  for  nothing  was  she  a  descendant  of  those 
old  knights  in  silver  armour,  in  the  window  on 
the  staircase.  She  leaned  her  arms  upon  the 
mantel-piece,  and  laid  her  head  upon  them.  She 
stood  thus  quite  still,  and  quite  silent,  fighting 
for  self-control. 

David,  waiting  silently  behind  her,  lifted  his 
eyes  from  that  bowed  head,  with  its  mass  of 
golden  hair,  and  encountered  the  keen  quizzical 
look  of  the  portrait  above  her. 

"/  shall  win,''  said  Uncle  Falcon  silently  to 
David,  over  Diana's  bowed  head.  But  David, 
who  knew  he  was  about  to  defeat  Uncle  Falcon's 
purpose  utterly,  looked  back  in  silent  defiance. 

The  amber  eyes  twinkled  beneath  their  shaggy 
brows.  "/  shall  win,  young  man,''  said  Uncle 
Falcon. 

Presently  Diana  lifted  her  head.  Her  lashes 
were  wet,  but  the  colour  had  returned  to  her 
cheeks.  Her  lips  smiled,  and  her  eyes  grew  softly 
bright. 

"David,"  she  said,  "you  must  think  me  siich 


David's  Decision  177 

a  goose!  But  you  can't  possibly  know  what  my 
home  means  to  me;  my  home  and — and  every- 
thing. Do  you  know,  when  I  read  your  tele- 
gram saying:  'Consultation  unnecessary.  Have 
decided,'  I  felt  quite  convinced  you  had  decided 
that  you  could  not  do  it;  and,  oh,  David,  I  have 
left  Riverscourt  forever,  a  himdred  times  during 
this  terrible  hour!  Really  it  would  have  been 
kinder  to  have  said:  'I  will  marr}'  you,'  in  the 
telegram." 

David  smiled.  "I  am  afraid  that  might  have 
cau.scd  a  good  deal  of  comment  at  both  post- 
offices, "  he  said.  "But  I  was  a  thoughtless  ass 
not  to  have  put  in  a  clear  indication  as  to  which 
way  the  decision  had  gone." 

"Hush!"  cried  Diana,  with  uplifted  finger. 
"  Don't  call  yourself  names,  my  dear  David, 
before  the  i)erson  who  is  going  to  promise  to 
honour  and  obey  you!"  Diana's  sj)irits  were 
rising  rapidly.  "Now  sit  down  and  tell  me  all 
about  it.  What  made  you  feel  you  could  do  it? 
Why  did  n't  you  need  to  consult  Sir  Deryck? 
Did  you  come  to  a  decision  last  night,  or  this 
morning?     You   will   keep  to  it,   David?" 

David  sat  down  in  an  armchair  opjxjsite 
to  Diana,  who  had  flung  herself  into  Uncle  Fal- 
con's. 


178        The  Following  of  the  Star 

The  portrait,  hanging  high  above  their  heads, 
twinkled  down  on  both  of  them. 

"/  shall  win,''  said  Uncle  Falcon. 

David  did  not  "tie  himself  up  in  knots"  to-day. 
He  sat  very  still,  looking  at  Diana  with  those  calm 
steadfast  eyes,  which  made  her  feel  so  young  and 
inconsequential,  and  far  removed  from  him. 

He  looked  ill  and  worn,  but  happy  and  at  rest; 
and,  as  he  talked,  his  face  wore  an  expression  she 
had  often  noted  when,  in  preaching,  he  became 
carried  away  by  his  subject;  a  radiance,  as  of 
inner  glory  shining  out;  a  look  as  of  being  de- 
tached from  the  world,  and  independent  of  aU 
actual  surroundings. 

"Undoubtedly  I  shall  keep  to  it.  Miss  Rivers," 
he  said,  "unless,  for  any  reason,  you  change  your 
mind.  And  I  saw  Hght  on  the  subject  this 
morning." 

"Oh,  then  you  'slept  on  it,*  as  our  old  nurses 
used  to  say?" 

David  smiled. 

"I  never  had  an  old  nurse,"  he  said.  "My 
mother  was  my  nurse." 

Diana  did  not  notice  that  her  question  had 
been  parried.  "And  what  made  you  feel  it 
right  this  morning?"  she  asked. 

David  hesitated 


David's  Decision  179 

"Light  came — through — the  Word,"  he  said 
at  last,  slowly. 

"Ha!"  cried  Diana.  "I  felt  sure  you  would 
look  for  it  there.  And  I  sat  up  neariy  all  night — 
I  mean  until  midnight — searching  my  Bible  and 
Prayer-book.  But  the  only  applicable  thing  I 
found  was:  'I  will  not  fail  David.'  It  would  have 
been  more  comforting  to  have  found:  'David 
will  not  fail  m€/"' 

David  laughed. 

"We  shall  not  fail  each  other,  Miss  Rivers." 

"Why  do  you  call  me  'Miss  Rivers'?  It  is 
quite  absurd  to  do  so,  now  we  are  engaged." 

"I  do  not  call  ladies  by  their  Christian  names, 
when  I  have  known  them  only  a  few  days," 
said  David. 

"  Not  when  you  arc  going  to  marr\'  them?" 

"  I  have  not  been  going  to  marry  them,  before," 
replied   David. 

"Oh,  don't  be  tiresome,  Cousin  David!  Are 
you  determined  to  accentuate  our  unusual 
circumstances?  " 

David's  clear  eyes  met  hers,  and  hold  them. 

"I  think  they  reciuirc  accentuating,"  he  sxiid, 
slowly. 

Diana's  eyes  fell  before  his.  She  felt  reproved. 
She    realised    that    in    the    reaction    of    her    im- 


iSo        The  Following  of  the  Star 

mense  relief,  she  was  taking  the  whole  thing  too 
lightly. 

"Cousin  David,"  she  said,  humbly,  "indeed  I 
do  reaUse  the  greatness  of  this  that  you  are  doing 
for  me.  It  means  so  much;  and  yet  it  means 
so  little.  And  just  because  it  means  so  little,  and 
never  can  mean  more,  it  was  difficult  to  you  to 
feel  it  right  to  do  it.  Is  not  that  so?  Do  you 
know,  I  think  it  would  help  me  so  much,  if 
you  would  tell  me  exactly  what  seemed  to 
you  doubtful;  and  exactly  what  it  was  which 
dispelled  that  doubt." 

"My  chief  difficulty,"  replied  David,  speaking 
very  slowly,  without  looking  at  Diana — "my 
chief  difficulty  was:  that  I  could  not  consider  it 
right,  in  the  sight  of  God,  to  enter  into  matri- 
mony for  reasons  other  than  those  for  which 
matrimony  was  ordained;  and  to  do  so,  knowing 
that  each  distinctly  understood  that  there  was 
never  to  be  any  question  of  fulfilling  any  of  the 
ordinary  conditions  and  obligations  of  that  sacred 
tie." 

David  paused. 

"In  fact,"  he  said,  after  a  few  moments  of 
deliberation,  "we  proposed  marrying  each  other 
for  the  sake  of  other  people." 

"Yes,"   cried  Diana,  eagerly;    "yoiir  savages, 


David's  Decision  i8i 

and  my  tenantry.  We  wrong  no  one;  we  benefit 
many.     Therefore — it  must  be  right." 

"Not  so,"  resumed  David,  gently.  "We  are 
never  justified  in  doing  wrong  in  order  that  good 
may  result.  No  amount  of  after  good  can  justify 
one  wrong  or  crooked  action.  It  seemed  to  me 
that,  according  to  the  revealed  mind  and  will  of 
God,  the  only  admissible  considerations  in  mar- 
riage were  those  affecting  the  man  and  the  woman, 
themselves;  that  to  wed  one  another,  entirely 
for  the  sake  of  benefiting  other  people,  would 
make  of  that  sacred  act  an  impious  unreality, 
and  could  not  be  done  by  those  seeking  to  live  in 
accordance  with  the  Divine  Will." 

Again  David  paused. 

"Well?"  breathed  Diana,  rather  wide-eyed  and 
anxious.  This  undoubted  impediment  to  her 
wishes,  sounded  insuperable. 

David  heard  the  trepidation  in  her  voice,  and 
smiled  at  her,  reassuringly. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  was  guided  to  a  passage 
in  the  Word— a  wonderful  Old  Testament  story — 
which  proved  that,  at  all  events  in  one  case,  God 
Himself  had  put  out  of  consideration  the  man  and 
the  woman,  their  personal  happiness,  thiir  home 
together,  and  had  dealt  with  that  wedded  life 
in  a  manner  which  was  solclv  to  benefit  a  com- 


i82        The  Following  of  the  Star 

munity  of  people.  This  one  case  was  enough  for 
me.  It  furnished  the  answer  to  all  my  ques- 
tions; set  at  rest  all  my  doubts.  True,  the  case 
was  unique.  But  so  is  ours.  Undoubtedly  it 
took  place  many  centuries  ago;  but  were  not  the 
Divine  Law  and  Will,  in  their  entirety,  revealed 
in  what  we  call  'olden  days'?  Biblical  manners 
and  customs  may  vary  according  to  clime,  cen- 
tury, or  conditions;  but  Bible  ethics  are  the  same 
from  Genesis  to  Revelation;  they  never  vary 
throughout  the  centuries,  and  are  therefore 
changeless  for  all  time.  I  stand  or  fall  by  the 
Word  of  my  God,  revealed  in  Eden;  just  as 
confidently  as  I  stand  or  fall  by  the  Word  of  my 
God,  spoken  from  the  rainbow  throne  of  Reve- 
lation; or,  as  it  shall  one  day  be  spoken,  from  the 
great  white  throne,  which  is  yet  to  come.  It  is 
the  same,  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever.  I  hold 
the  Bible  to  be  inspired  from  the  first  word  to  the 
last.  Let  one  Hne  go,  and  you  may  as  well  give 
up  the  whole.  If  men  begin  to  pick  and  choose, 
the  whole  great  book  is  swept  into  uncertainty. 
Either  it  is  impregnable  rock  beneath  our  feet, 
or  it  is  mere  shifting  sand  of  man's  concoction 
and  contrivance;  in  which  case,  where  can  essen- 
tial certainties  be  foiuid?" 

David's  eyes  shone.     His  voice  rang,   clarion 


David's  Decision  183 

clear  in  its  assurance.  He  had  forgotten  Diana; 
he  had  forgotten  himself;  he  had  forgotten  the 
vital  question  under  discussion. 

Her  anxious  eyes  recalled  him. 

"Ah,  where  were  we?  Yes;  the  Divine  ethics 
are  unchangeable.  We  can  say  of  our  God: 
'He  is  the  Father  of  Lights,  with  Whom  is 
no  variableness,  neither  shadow  that  is  cast 
by  turning.'  Therefore  there  is  no  shadow  in 
the  clear  light  which  came  to  me  last  night — from 
above,  I  honestly  believe.  I  may  be  wrong, 
Miss  Rivers;  a  man  can  but  act  according  to  his 
conscientious  convictions.  I  am  convinced,  to-day, 
that  your  suggestion  is  God's  will  for  us,  in 
order  that  we  may  be  made  a  greater  blessing  to 
many.  I  believe  I  was  guided  to  that  i)assage 
so  that  it  might  dispel  a  doubt,  which  otherwise 
would  certainly  have  remained  an  insurmountable 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  fulfilment  of  your 
wishes. " 

"Who  were  the  people?"  asked  Diana,  eageriy. 
"Where  was  the  passiige?" 

David  turned  his  head,  and  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

He  had  exiKctctl  this,  but,  until  Diana  actually 
put  the  question,  he  had  jx^stponcd  a  definite 
decision  as  to  what  he  .should  answer. 


i84        The  Following  of  the  Star 

He  looked  at  the  clear  frosty  sky.  A  slight 
wind  was  stirring  the  leafless  branches  of  the 
beeches.  He  could  see  the  powdery  snow  fall 
from  them  in  glistening  showers. 

He  did  not  wish  Diana  to  read  that  passage 
in  Ezekiel.  It  seemed  to  him,  she  could  not  fail 
to  know  at  once,  that  she  was  the  desire  of  his 
eyes,  if  she  read  it.  This  would  dawn  on  her, 
as  it  had  dawned  on  him — a  sudden  beam  of 
blinding  illumination — and  there  would  be  an 
end  to  any  service  he  might  otherwise  have 
rendered  her. 

"I  would  rather  you  did  not  read  the  passage, " 
he  said.  "Much  of  it  is  not  applicable.  In  fact, 
it  required  logical  deduction,  and  reasoning  by 
analogy,  in  order  to  arrive  at  the  main  point." 

"And  do  you  not  consider  me  capable  of  logical 
deduction,  or  of  reasoning  by  analogy.  Cousin 
David?" 

He  flushed. 

"How  stupidly  I  express  myself.  Of  course 
I  did  not  mean  that.  But — there  are  things  in 
the  story.  Miss  Rivers,  I  do  not  wish  you  to  see. " 

Diana   laughed. 

"My  good  Cousin  David,  it  is  quite  too  late 
to  begin  shielding  me!  In  fact  I  never  have  been 
the  carefully   guarded   'young  person.'     I  have 


David's  Decision  185 

read  heaps  of  naughty  books,  of  which,  I  daresay, 
you  have  never  even  heard!" 

David  winced.  "Once  more,  I  must  have 
expressed  myself  badly,"  he  said.  "I  will  not 
try  again.  But  you  must  forgive  me  if  I  still 
decline  to  give  you  the  passage." 

"Very  well.  But  I  shall  hunt  until  I  find  it," 
smiled  Diana,  in  playful  defiance.  "Did  you 
use  a  concordance  last  night,  Cousin  David?  I 
did.  I  looked  out '  David ' — pages  and  pages  of  it ! 
I  wondered  whether  you  were  looking  out '  Diana. 

He  smiled.  "I  should  only  have  found  'Diana 
of  the  Ephesians,'"  he  said;  "and,  though  she  fell 
mysteriously  from  heaven,  she  was  quite  unUke 
my  Lady  of  Mystery." 

"WTio  arrived  in  a  motor-car,"  laughed  Diana. 
"  Do  you  know,  when  you  told  me  you  had  called 
me — that,  I  thought  it  quite  the  most  funnily 
unsuitable  name  I  had  ever  heard.  I  realised 
how  the  Hunt  would  roar  if  they  knew." 

"You  sqe, "  said  David,  "the  Cirock  meaning 
of  'mystery'  is:  'WTiat  is  known  only  to  the 
initiated.'" 

"And  you  were  not  yet  initiated?"  suggested 
Diana. 

"No."  replied  David.  "The  Hunt  was  not 
initiated. " 


1 86        The  Following  of  the  Star 

Diana  looked  at  him  keenly.  Cousin  David 
was  proving  less  easy  to  understand  than  she  had 
imagined. 

"Let  us  talk  business,"  she  said.  "I  will  send 
for  Mr.  Inglestry  this  afternoon.  How  immensely 
relieved  he  will  be!  He  can  manage  all  legal 
details  for  us — the  special  license,  and  so  forth. 
Of  course  we  must  be  married  in  London;  and  I 
should  like  the  wedding  to  be  in  St.  Botolph's, 
that  dear  old  church  in  Bishopsgate;  because 
Saint  Botolph  is  the  patron  saint  of  travellers, 
and  that  church  is  one  where  people  go  to  pray 
for  safe-keeping,  before  a  voyage;  or  for  absent 
friends  who  are  travelling.  I  can  return  there 
to  pray  for  you,  whenever  I  am  in  town.  So  shall 
it  be  St.  Botolph's,  David?" 

"  If  you  wish  it, "  he  said. 

"You  see,  we  could  not  have  the  wedding 
here  or  at  Brambledene.  It  would  be  such  a 
nine  days'  wonder.  We  should  never  get  through 
the  crowds  of  people  who  would  come  to  gaze 
at  us.  I  don't  intend  to  make  any  mystery  of  it. 
I  shall  send  a  notice  of  our  engagement  to  the 
papers.  But  I  shall  say  of  the  wedding:  'To 
take  place  shortly,  owing  to  the  early  date  already 
fixed  for  the  departure  of  the  Rev.  David  Rivers 
to   Central   Africa.'      Then   no   one    need  know 


David's  Decision  187 

the  exact  day.  Chappie  and  Mr.  Inglestry  can 
be  our  witnesses;  and  you  might  get  Sir  Deryck. 
What  time  does  the  boat  start?" 

"In  the  afternoon,  from  Southampton.  The 
special  train  leaves  Waterloo  at  noon." 

"Capital!"  cried  Diana.  "We  can  be  married 
at  half -past  ten,  and  drive  straight  to  the  station, 
afterwards.  There  is  sure  to  be  a  luncheon-car 
on  the  train.  We  can  have  our  wedding-breakfast 
en  route,  and  I  can  see  you  off  from  Southampton. 
I  have  always  wanted  to  see  over  one  of  those 
big  liners.  I  may  see  you  off,  may  n't  I,  Cousin 
David?" 

"If  you  wish,"  he  said,  gently. 

' '  I  can  send  my  own  motor  down  to  Southamp- 
ton the  day  before,  and  it  will  be  an  easy  run 
back  home,  from  there.  We  can  hire  a  car  for 
the  wedding.     Would  n't  that  be  a  good  plan?" 

"Quite  a  good  plan,"  agreed  David. 

"God-papa  shall  marry  us,"  said  Diana;  "and 
then  I  can  make  him  leave  out  anything  in  the 
service  I  don't  want  to  have  read." 

David  sat  up  instantly. 

"No,"  he  said;  "to  that  I  cannot  agree.  Not 
one  word  must  be  omitted.  If  we  are  married 
according  to  the  prescribed  rules  of  our  Church, 
we   must   not   pick   and   choose   as   to   what  our 


1 88        The  Following  of  the  Star 

Church  shall  say  to  us,  as  we  humbly  stand  before 
her  altar,  I  refuse  to  go  through  the  service 
if  a  word  is  omitted." 

Diana's  eyes  flashed  rebellion. 

"My  dear  Cousin  David,  have  you  read  the 
wedding  service?" 

"I  know  it  by  heart,"  said  David  Rivers. 

"Then  you  must  surely  know  that  it  would 
simply  make  a  farce  of  it,  to  read  the  whole,  at 
such  a  wedding  as  ours." 

"Nothing  can  make  a  farce  of  a  Church  service," 
said  David  firmly.  "We  may  make  a  sham  of 
our  own  part  in  it;  but  every  word  the  Church 
will  say  to  us,  will  be  right  and  true. " 

"  I  must  have  certain  passages  omitted, "  flashed 
Diana. 

"Very  well,"  said  David,  quietly.  "Then 
there  can  be  no  wedding." 

"David,  you  are  unreasonable  and  obstinate!" 

David  regarded  her  quietly,  and  made  no 
answer. 

Diana's  angry  flush  was  suddenly  modified  by 
dimples. 

"Is  this  what  people  call  finding  one's  master?" 
she  inquired.  "It  is  fortunate  for  our  peace, 
dear  Cousin,  that  we  part  on  the  wedding-day! 
I  am  accustomed  to  having  my  own  way. " 


David's  Decision  189 

David's  eyes,  as  he  looked  into  hers,  were 
sad,  yet  tender. 

"The  Church  will  require  you,  Miss  Rivers, 
to  promise  to  obey.  Even  your  god-father  will 
hardly  go  on  with  the  ceremony,  if  you  decline 
to  repeat  the  word.  I  don't  think  I  am  a  tyrant, 
or  a  particularly  domineering  person.  But  if, 
between  the  time  we  leave  the  church  and  the 
sailing  of  my  boat,  I  should  feel  it  necessary  to 
ask  you  to  do — or  not  to  do — a  thing,  I  shall 
expect  you  to  obey." 

"Brute!"  cried  Diana.  "I  doubt  if  I  shall 
venture  so  far  as  the  station.  Just  to  the  church 
door,  we  might  arrive,  without  a  WTangle!" 
Then  she  sprang  up,  all  smiles  and  sunshine. 
"Come,  my  lord  and  master!  An  it  please  you, 
I  hear  the  luncheon-gong.  Also  the  approach 
of  Chappie,  who  responds  to  the  call  of  the  gong 
with  a  prompt  and  unhesitating  obedience,  which 
is  more  than  wifely!  Quick,  my  dear  David, 
your  hand.  .  .  .  Come  in,  Chappie!  We  want 
you  to  congratulate  us!  Your  advice  to  me  at 
breakfast  appeared  so  excellent,  that  I  have  lost 
no  time  in  following  it.  I  have  promised  to  marry 
my  Cousin  David,  before  he  sails  for  Central 
Africa!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  EVE  OF  EPIPHANY 

IT  was  the  eve  of  the  wedding-day. 
*         Diana   lay   back   in   an   easy-chair   in  the 
sitting-room  of  the  suite  she  always  occupied  at 
the  Hotel  Metropole,  when  in  town. 

A  cheerful  fire  blazed  in  the  grate.  Every 
electric  light  in  the  room — and  there  were  many — 
was  turned  on.  Even  the  little  portable  lamp  on 
the  writing-table,  beneath  its  soft  silken  shade, 
illumined  its  own  comer.  Diana's  present  mood 
required  a  blaze  of  light  everjrwhere.  The  gor- 
geous colouring,  the  rapid  movement,  the  con- 
tinual bustle  and  rush  of  life  in  a  huge  London 
hotel,  exactly  suited  her  just  now;  especially  as 
the  movement  was  noiseless,  on  the  thick  Persian 
carpets;  and  the  rush  went  swiftly  up  and  down, 
in  silently  rapid  elevators. 

Within  five  days  of  her  wedding,   Diana  had 

reached  a  point,  when  she  could  no  longer  stand 

the  old  oak  staircase;  the  fatherly  deportment  of 

Rodgers;  and  meals  alone  with  Mrs.  Marmaduke 

190 


The  live  of  Epiphany  191 

Vane.  Also  David,  pleading  many  pressing  en- 
gagements in  town,  came  no  more  to  Rivers- 
court. 

So  Diana  had  packed  her  chaperon  and  her  maid 
into  the  motor ;  and  flown  up  to  London,  to  be  near 
David. 

There  was,  for  Diana,  a  peculiar  and  indefinable 
happiness  in  the  days  that  followed.  It  was  so 
long  since  she  had  had  anybody  who,  in  some 
sort,  really  belonged  to  her.  David,  when  once 
they  had  met  again,  proved  more  amenable  to 
reason  than  Diana  had  dared  to  hope.  He  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  taken  about  in  the  motor 
to  his  various  appointments  each  day.  He  let 
Diana  superintend  his  simple  outfit;  he  even  let 
her  supplement  it,  where  she  considered  necessary. 
He  was  certainly  very  meek,  for  a  tyrant ;  and  very 
humbly  gentle,  for  a  despotic  lord  and  master. 

When  he  found  Diana's  heart  was  set  upon  it, 
he  allowed  her  to  pay  for  the  elaborate  medicine- 
chest  he  was  taking  out,  and  spent  the  money  he 
had  earned  for  this  purpose,  on  the  wedding-ring; 
and  on  a  simple,  yet  beautiful,  guard-ring.  This, 
Diana  wore  already,  upon  the  third  finger  of  her 
left  hand;  a  plain  gold  band,  with  just  one  dia- 
mond, cut  star  shape,  inset.     Round  the  inside  of 


192        The  Following  of  the  Star 

the  ring,  David  had  had  engraved  the  three  words: 
Gold,    frankincense,    and   myrrh. 

Diana,  who  quickly  formed  habits,  had  already 
got  into  the  way  of  twisting  this  ring,  with  the 
diamond  turned  inwards,  when  anything  tried  or 
annoyed  her.  Rather  often,  during  those  few 
days,  the  stone  was  hidden  from  A^rs.  Vane's 
complacent  sight;  but  when  David  was  with  her, 
it  always  shone  upon  her  hand. 

One  afternoon,  when  they  were  out  together, 
he  mentioned,  with  pleasure,  having  secured  a 
berth  in  the  cabin  he  had  had  on  the  homeward 
voyage,  on  that  same  ship. 

"It  will  seem  quite  home-like,"  said  David. 

"You  have  it  to  yourself?"  inquired  Diana. 

"Oh,  no!"  replied  David.  "Two  other  fellows 
will  share  it  with  me.  A  state-room  all  to  myself, 
would  be  too  palatial  for  a  missionary." 

"But  supposing  the  two  other  fellows  are  not 
the  kind  of  people  you  like  to  be  cooped  up  with 
at  close  quarters,  during  a  long  voyage?" 

"Oh,  one  chances  that,"  replied  David.  "And 
it  is  always  possible  to  make  the  best  of  the  most 
adverse  circumstances." 

Diana  became  suddenly  anxious  to  be  rid  of 
David.  At  their  next  place  of  call,  she  arranged 
to  leave  him  for.  twenty  minutes. 


The  Eve  of  Epiphany  193 

No  sooner  had  David  disappeared,  than  Diana 
ordered  her  chauffeur  to  speed  to  Cockspur  Street. 

She  swept  into  the  office  of  the  steamship 
company,  asking  for  a  plan  of  the  boat,  the  man- 
ager of  the  booking  department,  the  secretary  of 
the  company,  and  the  captain  of  the  ship,  if  he 
happened  to  be  handy,  all  in  a  breath,  and  in  so 
regal  a  manner,  that  she  soon  found  herself  in  an 
inner  sanctum,  and  in  the  presence  of  a  supreme 
official.  While  there,  after  much  consultation 
over  a  plan  of  the  ship,  she  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
cheque  for  so  large  a'  sum,  that  she  was  bowed  out 
to  her  motor  by  the  great  man,  himself. 

"And  mind,"  said  Diana,  turning  in  the  door- 
way, "no  mention  of  my  name  is  to  appear.  It 
is  to  be  done  'with  the  compliments  of  the  Com- 
pany'." 

"Your  instructions  shall  be  implicitly  obeyed, 
madam,"  said  the  supreme  official,  with  a  final 
bow. 

"Nice  man,"  remarked  Diana  to  herself,  as  the 
motor  glided  off  into  the  whirl  of  traffic,  "Now 
that  is  the  kind  of  person  it  would  be  quite  possible 
to  marry,  and  live  with,  without  ructions.  No 
amount  of  training  would  ever  induce  David  to 
bow  and  implicitly  obey  instructions." 

The  ready  dimples  peeped  out,  as  Diana  leaned 


194        The  Following  of  the  Star 

back,  enjoying  the  narrow  shaves  by  which  her 
chauffeur  escaped  collisions  all  along  Piccadilly. 

'"Between  the  time  we  leave  the  church,  and 
the  sailing  of  my  boat.  ...  I  shall  expect  you 
to  obey','"  she  whispered,  in  gleeful  amusement. 
"Poor  David!  I  wonder  how  he  will  behave  be- 
tween Waterloo  and  Southampton.  And,  oh, 
I  wonder  how  /  shall  behave!  I  am  inclined  to 
think  it  might  be  wise  to  let  Chappie  come  with 
us." 

Diana's  eyes  danced.  It  never  failed  to  provide 
her  with  infinite  amusement,  when  her  chaperon 
and  David  got  on  each  other's  nerves. 

"No,  I  won't  do  that,"  she  decided,  as  they  flew 
up  Park  Lane;  "it  would  be  cowardly.  And  he 
can't  bully  me  much,  in  two  hours  and  a  half. 
Poor  David!" 

So  the  days  had  passed,  and  the  eve  of  the 
wedding  had  now  arrived. 

David  had  refused  to  dine  and  spend  the 
evening,  pleading  a  promise  of  long  standing  to 
his  friend,  the  doctor.  But  they  had  had  tea 
together,  an  hour  before;  Mrs.  Marmaduke  Vane 
absorbing  most  of  the  conversation,  and  nearly 
all  the  tea  cake ;  and  David  had  risen  and  made  his 
adieux,  before  Diana  could  think  of  any  pretext 
for  dismissing  her  chaperon. 


The  Eve  of  Epiphany  195 

She  would  not  now  meet  David  again,  until 
they  stood  together,  on  the  following  morning, 
at  the  chancel  step  of  St.  Botolph's  Church. 

All  preparations  were  complete;  yet  Diana  was 
now  awaiting  something  unforeseen  and  un- 
expected. 

David  had  not  left  the  room  ten  minutes — Mrs. 
\'ane  was  still  discussing  the  perfectly  appointed 
teas,  the  charming  roseleaf  china,  and  debating 
which  frock-coated  official  in  the  office  would 
be  the  correct  person  of  whom  to  make  inquiries 
concerning  the  particular  brand  of  the  marmalade 
— when  the  telephone-bell  rang  sharply;  and 
Diana,  going  to  the  mantel-piece,  took  up  the 
receiver. 

Mr.  Inglestry  was  speaking  from  his  club.  He 
must  see  her  at  once,  on  a  matter  of  importance. 
Mr.  Ford,  of  the  firm  of  Ford  &  Davis,  of 
Riversmead,  was  with  him,  having  brought  up  a 
sealed  package  to  hand  over  to  Miss  Rivers  in 
his — Mr.  Inglestry's — presence.  Would  they  find 
her  at  home  and  disengaged,  if  they  called,  in 
half  an  hour's  time? 

"Certainly,"  said  Diana,  "I  will  be  here." 
Adding,  as  an  after- thought,  before  ringing  off: 
"Mr.  Inglestry!  Are  you  there? — No,  wait  a 
minute.    Central! — Mr.    Inglestry!     What    is    it 


196        The  Following  of  the  Star 

about?"  just  for  the  fun  of  hearing  old  Inglestiy 
sigh  at  the  other  end  of  the  telephone  and  patiently 
explain  once  more  that  the  package  was  sealed. 
There  was  no  telephone  at  Riverscourt,  and 
Diana  found  endless  amusement  in  a  place  where 
she  had  one  in  her  sitting-room,  and  one  in  her  bed- 
room. She  loved  ringing  people  up,  when  Mrs. 
Vane  was  present;  holding  mysterious  one-sided 
conversations,  for  the  express  purpose  of  exciting 
her  chaperon's  curiosity  to  a  positively  madden- 
ing extent.  One  evening  she  rang  up  David,  and 
gave  him  a  bad  five  minutes.  She  could  say 
things  into  the  telephone  to  David,  which  she 
could  not  possibly  have  said  with  his  grave  clear 
eyes  upon  her.  And  David  always  took  you  quite 
seriously,  even  at  the  other  end  of  the  telephone; 
which  made  it  all  the  more  amusing;  especially 
with  Chappie  whispering  hoarsely  from  the  sofa; 
"My  dear  Diana!  What  can  your  Cousin  David 
be  saying!"  when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  poor  Cousin 
David  was  merely  gasping  inarticulately,  unable 
to  make  head  or  tail  of  Diana's  remarks. 

But  now  Diana  waited;  a  query  of  perplexity 
on  her  brow.  Mr,  Ford  was  the  young  lawyer 
sent  for  in  haste  by  Uncle  Falcon,  shortly  before  his 
death.     What  on  earth  was  in  the  sealed  package? 


The  Eve  of  Epiphany  197 

All  legal  matters  had  gone  forward  smoothly, 
so  far,  in  the  experienced  hands  of  Mr.  Inglestry. 
In  his  presence,  David  had  quietly  acquiesced 
in  all  Diana  wished,  and  in  all  Mr.  Inglestry 
arranged.  Settlements  had  been  signed;  Diana's 
regal  gifts  to  David's  work  had  been  duly  put 
into  form  and  ratified.  Only — once  or  twice,  as 
David's  eyes  met  his,  the  older  man  had  surprised 
in  them  a  look  of  suffering  and  of  tragedy,  which 
perplexed  and  haunted  him.  WTiat  further  de- 
velopment lay  before  this  unexpected  solution  to 
all  difficulties,  arranged  so  suddenly,  at  the  eleventh 
hour,  by  his  fair  client?  The  old  family  lawyer 
was  too  wise  to  ask  many  questions,  yet  too 
shrewd  not  to  foresee  possible  complications  in 
this  strange  and  unusual  marriage.  Of  one  thing, 
however,  he  was  certain:  David  Rivers  was  a 
man  to  be  trusted. 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE   CODICIL 


A  S  the  gilt  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  hurriedly 
■^  struck  six,  corroborated  in  the  distance  by 
the  slow  booming  of  Big  Ben,  a  page  boy  knocked 
at  Diana's  sitting-room  door,  announcing  two 
gentlemen  waiting  below,  to  see  Miss  Rivers. 

"Show  them  up,"  commanded  Diana;  and, 
rising,  stood  on  the  hea,rthrug  to  receive  them. 

Mr.  Inglestry  entered,  suave  and  fatherly,  as 
usual;  followed  by  a  dark  young  man,  who,  hat 
in  hand,  looked  with  nervous  admiration  at  the 
tall  girl  in  green  velvet,  standing  straight  and  slim, 
with  her  back  to  the  fire. 

She  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Inglestry,  who  pre- 
sented Mr.  Ford,  of  the  firm  of  Ford  &  Davis, 
of  Riversmead. 

"WeU?"  said  Diana. 

She  did  not  sit  down  herself,  nor  did  she  offer 

a  chair  to  Mr.  Ford,  of  the  firm  of  Ford  &  Davis, 

of  Riversmead.     A  gleam  of  sudden  anger  had 

come  into  her  eyes  at  sight  of  the  young  man. 

198 


The  Codicil  I99 

She  evidently  intended  to  arrive  at  once  at  the 
reason  for  this  unexpected  interview. 

So  Mr.  Ford  presented  a  sealed  envelope  to 
Diana. 

"Under  private  instructions,  Miss  Rivers," 
he  said,  with  a  somewhat  pompous  air  of  import- 
ance; "under  private  instructions,  from  your 
tmcle,  the  late  Mr.  Falcon  Rivers,  of  Riverscourt, 
I  am  to  deliver  this  envelope  unopened  into  your 
hands,  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Inglestry,  on  the 
eve  of  your  marriage;  or,  should  no  marriage 
previously  have  taken  place,  on  the  eve  of  the 
anniversary  of  the  death  of  your  late  uncle." 

Diana  took  the  envelope,  and  read  the  endorse- 
ment in  her  uncle's  characteristic  and  unmistak- 
able handwriting. 

"So  I  see,"  she  said.  "And  fiuthermore,  if 
you  carry  out  these  instructions,  and  deliver  this 
envelope  at  the  right  time,  and  in  every  respect 
in  the  manner  arranged,  payment  of  fifty  guineas 
is  to  be  made  to  you,  out  of  the  estate,  for  so  doing. 
Also,  I  see  I  am  instructed  to  open  this  envelope 
in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Inglestry  alone.  Well, 
you  have  exactly  carried  out  your  instructions, 
Mr.  Ford,  and  no  doubt  Mr.  Inglestr>'  will  see 
that  you  receive  your  fee.     Good-evening." 

"Wait    for    me    do^^-nstairs,    Ford,"   said   I^Ir. 


200        The  Following  of  the  Star 

Inglestry,  nervously.  "You  will  find  papers  in 
the  reading-room.  Miss  Rivers  is  naturally 
anxious  to  acquaint  herself  with  the  contents  of 
this  package." 

Mr.  Ford,  of  the  firm  of  Ford  &  Davis,  of 
Riversmead,  bowed  himself  out  of  the  room.  He 
afterwards  described  Miss  Rivers,  of  Riverscoiirt, 
as  "a  haughty  young  woman;  but  handsome  as 
they  make  'em!" 

Alone  with  her  old  friend  and  adviser,  Diana 
turned  to  him,  impetuously. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  she  inquired, 
wrath  and  indignation  in  her  voice.  "Why  did 
my  uncle  instruct  that  greasy  young  man  to 
intrude  upon  me  with  a  sealed  letter  from  himself, 
a  year  after  his  death?" 

"Open  it,  my  dear;  open  it  and  see, "counselled 
Mr.  Inglestry,  removing  his  glasses  and  polishing 
them  with  a  silk  pocket-handkerchief.  "Sit 
down  quietly,  and  open  it.  And  it  is  not  prudent 
to  allude  to  Mr.  Ford  as  'greasy,'  when  the  door 
has  barely  closed  upon  him.  I  cannot  conceive 
what  Mr.  Ford  has  done,  to  bring  upon  himself 
your  evident  displeasure." 

"Done!"  cried  Diana.  "Why  I  knew  him  the 
moment  he  entered  the  room!  He  had  the  im- 
pudence, the  other  day,  to  join  the  hunt  on  a  hired 


The  Codicil  201 

hack,  and  to  ride  in  among  the  hounds,  while 
they  were  picking  up  the  scent.  Of  all  the 
undesirable  bounders " 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  implored  IMr.  Inglestr>', 
"do  lower  your  voice.  Mr.  Ford  is  probably 
still  upon  the — the,  ah — mat.  He  is  merely  the 
bearer  of  your  uncle's  missive.  I  do  beg  of 
you  to  turn  your  thoughts  from  ofTences  in  the 
hunting-field,  and  to  give  your  attention  to  the 
matter  in  hand." 

"Well,  shoo  him  off  the  mat,"  said  Diana,  "and 
hustle  him  into  the  lift!  I  decline  to  receive 
letters  from  a  person  who  comes  into  the  room 
heralded  by  hair-oil.  .  .  .  All  right!  Don't 
look  so  distressed.  Sit  down  in  this  comfy  chair, 
and  we  will  see  what  surprise  Uncle  Falcon  has 
prepared  for  us.  Really,  when  one  comes  to  think 
of  it,  a  letter  from  a  person  who  has  been  dead 
a  year  is  a  rather  wonderful  thing  to  receive." 

Diana  seated  herself  on  the  sofa,  after  pushing 
forward  an  armchair  for  the  old  lawyer.  Then, 
in  the  full  blaze  of  the  electric  light,  she  opened 
the  sealed  envelope,  and  drew  out  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  herself,  in  her  uncle's  own  handwriting. 
A  folded  paper  from  within  it,  fell  unheeded  on 
her  lap. 

She  read  the  letter  aloud  to  Mr.  Inglestr}'.      As 


202        The  Following  of  the  Star 

she  read  her  grey  eyes  widened;  her  colour  came 
and  went;  but  her  voice  did  not  falter. 
And  this  was  Uncle  Falcon's  letter: 

"My  dear  Niece: 

"If  Ford  does  his  duty — and  most  men  do  their 
duty  for  fifty  guineas — you  will  be  reading  these 
words  either  on  the  eve  of  your  wedding-day,  or 
on  the  eve  of  the  day  on  which  you  will  be  pre- 
paring to  leave  Riverscourt,  and  to  give  up  all 
that  which,  since  my  death,  has  been  your  own. 

"Feeling  sure  that  I  was  right,  my  dear  Diana, 
in  our  many  arguments,  and  that  I  have  won  in 
the  contest  of  our  wills,  I  v/ould  bet  a  good  deal — 
if  betting  is  allowed  in  the  other  world — that  you 
are  reading  this  on  the  eve  of  your  wedding-day — 
am  I  right,  Inglestry,  old  chap? — having  found  a 
man  who  will  soon  teach  you  that  wifehood  and 
motherhood  and  dependence  on  the  stronger  sex 
are  a  woman's  true  vocation,  and  her  best  chance 
of  real  happiness  in  life. 

"If  so,  look  up,  honestly,  and  say :  'Uncle Falcon, 
you  have  won';  and  I  hereby  forgive  Inglestry 
all  his  fuss  and  bluster,  and  you,  the  obstinacy  of 
years — and  may  Heaven  bless  the  wedding-day. 

"But — ah,  there  's  a  'but'  in  all  things  human! 
Perhaps  the  world  where  I  shall  be,  when  you  are 


The  Codicil  203 

reading  these  lines,  is  the  only  place  where  buts 
cease  to  be,  and  where  all  things  go  straight  on 
to  fulfilment. 

"But — your  happiness,  my  own  dear  girl,  is  of 
too  much  real  importance  for  me  to  risk  it,  on 
the  possible  chance  of  the  right  man  not  having 
turned  up;  or  of  you — true  Rivers  that  you  are — 
proving  obstinate  to  the  end. 

"Therefore — enclosed  herewith  you  will  find  a 
later  codicil  than  that  known  to  you  and  Inglestr}-, 
duly  witnessed  by  Ford  and  his  clerk,  nullifying 
the  other,  and  leaving  you  my  entire  property  as 
stated  in  my  will,  subject  to  no  conditions  what- 
soever. 

"Thus,  my  dear  Diana,  if  you  are  on  the  eve  of 
preparing  to  leave  Riverscourt,  you  may  unpack 
your  trunks,  and  stay  there,  with  your  uncle's 
love  and  blessing.     It  is  all  your  ou-n. 

"Or — but  knowing  you  as  I  do,  I  hardly  think 
this  likely — if  you  are  on  the  eve  of  making  a 
marriage  which  is  not  one  of  love,  and  which  is 
causing  you  in  prospect  distress  and  unhappiness 
— why,  break  it  off,  child,  and  send  the  man  pack- 
ing. If  he  is  marr\'ing  you  for  your  money,  he 
deserves  the  lesson;  and  if  he  loves  you  for  your 
splendid  self,  why  he  is  not  much  of  a  man  if  he 
has  been  engaged  to  such  a  girl  as  my  niece  Diana, 


204        The  Following  of  the  Star 

without  having  been  able  to  win  her,  before  the 

eve  of  the  w^edding-day ! 

"Anyway,  you  now  have  a  free  hand,  child;  and 

if  my  whim  of  testing  fate  for  you  with  the  first 

codicil,  has  put  you  in  a  tight  place,  old  Inglestry 

will  see  you  through,  and  you  must  forgive  your 

departed  imcle,  who  loves  you  more  than  you  ever 

knew, 

"Falcon  Rivers." 

Diana  dropped  the  letter,  flung  herself  down  on 
the  sofa  cushions,  and  burst  into  a  passion  of 
weeping. 

Mr.  Inglestry,  helpless  and  dismayed,  took  off 
his  glasses  and  polished  them  with  his  silk  pocket- 
handkerchief ;  put  them  on  again;  leaned  forward 
and  patted  Diana's  shoulder;  even  ventured  to 
stroke  her  shining  hair,  repeating,  hurriedly:  "It 
can  all  be  arranged,  my  dear.  I  beg  of  you  not 
to  upset  yourself.     It  can  all  be  arranged." 

Then  he  picked  up  the  codicil,  and  examined 
it  carefully.  It  was  correct  in  every  detail.  It 
simply  nullified  the  private  codicil,  and  confirmed 
the  original  will. 

"It  can  all  be  arranged,  my  dear, "  he  repeated, 
laying  a  fatherly  hand  on  Diana's  heaving 
shoulder.      "Do    not    upset    yourself    over   this 


The  Codicil  205 

unfortunate      marriage      complication.      I      will 

undertake 

"It  is  not  that!"  cried  Diana,  sitting  up,  and 
pushing  back  her  rumpled  hair.  "Oh,  you 
unimaginative  old  thing!  Can't  you  understand ? 
All  these  months  it  has  been  so  hard  to  have  to 
think  that  Uncle  Falcon 's  love  for  me  had  really 
been  worth  so  little,  that,  in  order  to  prove  him- 
self right  on  one  silly  point,  he  could  treat  me  as 
he  did  in  that  cruel  codicil.  He  could  not  have 
foreseen  the  simply  miraculous  way  in  which 
Providence  and  my  Cousin  David  were  coming 
to  my  rescue,  at  the  eleventh  hour.  Otherwise 
it  must  have  meant,  either  a  hateful  marriage, 
or  the  loss  of  home,  and  money,  and  everything 
I  hold  most  dear.  But  by  far  the  worst  loss  of  all 
was  to  lose  faith  in  the  truest  love  I  had  ever 
known.  In  my  whole  life,  no  love  had  ever  seemed 
to  me  so  true,  so  faithful,  so  completely  to  be 
trusted,  as  Uncle  Falcon's.  To  have  lost  my 
belief  in  it,  was  beginning  to  make  of  me  a  hard 
and  a  bitter  woman.  That  codicil  was  costing 
me  more  than  home  and  income.  And  now  it 
turns  out  to  have  been  merely  a  test — a  risky 
test,  indeed!  Think  if  cither  of  us  had  told 
Rupert  of  it,  before  the  time  specified;  or  if  I  had 
been  going  to  marry  Rupert  or  any  other  worldly- 


2o6         The  Following  of  the  Star 

minded  man,  who  would  have  made  endless  trouble 
over  being  jilted!  But — dear  old  thing!  He 
did  n't  think  of  that.  He  was  so  sure  his  plan 
would  lead  to  my  making  a  happy  marriage,  not- 
withstanding my  prejudices  and  my  principles. 
He  was  wrong,  of  course.  But  the  main  point 
brought  out  by  this  second  codicU  is:  that  he 
really  cared.  I  can  forgive  him  all  the  rest,  now 
I  know  that  Uncle  Falcon  loved  me  too  well 
really  to  risk  spoiling  my  life." 

Diana  dried  her  eyes;  then  raised  her  head, 
snuffing  the  air  with  the  keenness  of  one  of  her 
own  splendid  hounds. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Inglestr}^"  she  said;  "do  go  and  see 
if  that  person  is  still  on  the  mat!  I  have  been 
talking  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  and  I  believe  I 
scent  hair-oil!" 

The  old  la\\^^er  tiptoed  to  the  door,  opened  it 
cautiously,  and  looked  up  and  down  the  brightly 
lighted  corridor.  From  the  distance  came  the 
constant  clang  of  the  closing  of  the  elevator  gates, 
and  the  sharp  ting  of  electric  bells. 

He  shut  the  door,  and  returned  to  his  seat. 

Diana  was  reading  the  codicil. 

"  I  wonder  why  he  called  in  that  Ford  creature," 
she  said.  "Why  did  he  not  intrust  this  envelope 
to  you?" 


The  Codicil  207 

"My  dear,"  suggested  Mr.  Inglestr>-,  "knowing 
my  aiTection  for  you,  knowing  how  deeply  I  have 
your  interests  at  heart,  your  uncle  may  have 
feared  that,  if  I  saw  you  in  much  perplexity,  in 
great  distress  of  mind  over  the  matter,  I  might 
have  let  fall  some  hint — have  given  you  some 
indication " 

"Why,  of  course!"  said  Diana.  "Think  how 
you  would  have  caught  it  to-day,  if  you  had  n't. 
You  would  have  been  much  more  afraid  of  mc,  on 
earth,  than  of  Uncle  Falcon,  in  heaven!" 

Mr.  Inglestr}^  lifted  his  hand  in  mute  protest; 
then  took  off  his  glasses,  and  poUshed  them. 
The  remarks  of  Miss  Rivers  were  so  apt  to  be 
perplexing  and  unanswerable. 

"Let  us  leave  that  question,  my  dear  young 
lady,"  he  said.  "Your  uncle  adopted  a  remark- 
ably shrewd  course  for  attaining  the  end  he 
desired.  Meanwhile,  it  remains  for  us  to  deal 
with  the  present  situation.  I  advise  that  we 
send  immediately  for  your  cousin,  David  Rivers. 
Of  course  this  marriage  of — of  convenience,  need 
not  now  take  place." 

Diana  looked  straight  at  the  old  lawyer  for  a 
few  moments,  in  blank  silence.  She  turned  the 
ring  upon  her  finger,  so  that  the  diamond  was 
hidden.     Then  she  said,  slowly: 


2o8         The  Following  of  the  Star 

"You  suggest  that  we  send  for  David  Rivers, 
and  tell  him  that — this  second  codicil  having 
turned  up — we  shall  not,  after  all,  require  his 
services:  that  he  may  sail  for  Central  Africa  to- 
morrow, without  going  through  the  marriage 
ceremony  with  me?" 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Inglestry,  "just  so." 
Something  in  Diana's  eyes  arresting  further 
inspiration,  he  repeated  rather  nervously:  "Just 
so." 

"Well,  I  absolutely  decline  to  do  anything  of 
the  kind,"  flashed  Diana.  "Think  of  the  in- 
tolerable humiliation  to  David!  After  over- 
coming his  own  doubts  in  the  matter;  after 
disposing  of  his  first  conscientious  scruples;  after 
making  up  his  mind  to  go  through  with  this  for 
my  sake,  and  being  so  faithful  about  it.  After 
all  the  papers  we  have  signed,  and  the  arrange- 
ments we  have  made !  To  be  sent  for,  and  calmly 
told  his  services  are  no  longer  required!  Besides — 
though  I  don't  propose  to  be  much  to  him,  I 
know — I  am  all  he  has  in  the  world.  He  will 
sail  to-morrow  feeling  that  at  least  there  is  one 
person  on  this  earth  who  belongs  to  him,  and  to 
whom  he  belongs;  one  person  to  whom  he  can 
write  freely,  and  who  cares  to  know  of  his  joys 
or  sorrows;  his  successes  or  failures.     Poor  boy! 


The  Codicil  209 

Could  I  possibly,  to  avoid  a  little  bother  to  myself, 
rob  him  of  this?  I — who  owe  him  more  than  I 
can  ever  express?  Besides,  he  could  never — 
after  such  a  slight  on  my  part — accept  the  money 
I  am  giving  to  his  work.  In  fact,  I  doubt  if  he 
would  accept  so  much,  even  now,  were  it  not  that 
he  believes  I  owe  my  whole  fortune  to  the  fact 
of  his  marriage  with  me." 

Diana  turned  the  ring  again;  and  the  diamond 
shone  like  a  star  on  her  hand. 

"No,  Mr.  Inglestry,"  she  said,  with  decision. 
"The  marriage  will  take  place  to-morrow,  as 
arranged ;  and  my  Cousin  David  must  never  know 
of  this  new  codicil." 

The  law>'er  looked  doubtful  and  dissatisfied. 

"The  fact  of  the  codicil  remains,"  he  said. 
"Your  whole  property  is  now  safely  your  own, 
subject  to  no  conditions  whatever.  You  have 
nothing  to  gain  by  this  marriage  -^-ith  your  cousin; 
you  might — eventually — have  serious  cause  to 
regret  the  loss  of  liberty  it  will  entail.  I  do  not 
consider  that  we  are  justified  in  allowing  the 
ceremony  to  take  place  u4thout  informing  him 
of  the  complete  change  of  circumstances,  and 
acquainting  him  with  the  existence  of  this  second 
codicil." 

"Very  well,"  said  Diana. 


210        The  Following  of  the  Star 

With  a  sudden  movement,  she  rose  to  her  feet, 
whirled  round  on  the  hearthrug,  tore  the  codicil 
to  fragments,  and  flung  them  into  the  flames. 

"There!"  she  cried,  towering  over  the  aston- 
ished little  lawyer  in  the  large  armchair.  "Now, 
no  second  codicil  exists!  I  can  still  keep  my 
restored  faith  in  the  love  of  Uncle  Falcon;  but  I 
shall  owe  my  home,  my  fortune,  and  all  I 
possess,  to  my  husband,  David  Rivers." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  OLD  ST.  BOTOLPH's 

A  T  twenty  minutes  past  ten,  on  the  morning 
"^  of  the  Feast  of  Epiphany,  David  Rivers 
stood  in  the  empty  church  of  St.  Botolph's, 
Bishopsgate,  awaiting  his  bride. 

Perhaps  no  man  ever  came  to  his  wedding 
looking  less  like  a  bridegroom  than  did  David 
Rivers. 

Diana  had  scorned  the  suggestion,  first  mooted 
by  Mrs.  Marmaduke  Vane,  of  clerical  broadcloth 
of  more  fashionable  cut,  to  be  worn  by  David  for 
this  one  occasion. 

"Rubbish,  my  dear  Chappie!"  had  said  Diana. 
"You  are  just  the  sort  of  person  who  would  marry 
the  clothes,  without  giving  much  thought  to  the 
man  inside  them.  /  don't  propose  to  be  in  white 
satin;  so  why  should  David  be  in  broadcloth? 
I  shall  not  be  crowned  with  orange-blossom,  so 
why  should  David  go  to  the  expense  of  an  unneces- 
sary topper?     He  could  hardly  wear  it  out,  among 

211 


212        The  Following  of  the  Star 

his  savages  in  Central  Africa.  They  might  get 
hold  of  it;  make  of  it  a  fetish;  and,  eventually, 
build  for  it  a  little  shrine,  and  worship  it.  An 
article  might  then  be  written  for  a  missionary 
magazine,  entitled:  'The  Apotheosis  of  the  silk 
top-hat  of  the  Rev.  David  Rivers!'  I  shall  not 
wear  a  train,  so  why  should  David  appear  in  a 
long  coat.  Have  a  new  one  for  the  occasion, 
David,  because  undoubtedly  this  little  friend, 
though  dear,  is  an  old  friend.  But  keep  to  your 
favourite  cut.  You  would  alarm  me  in  tails  or 
clerical  skirts,  even  more  than  you  do  already." 

So  David  on  his  wedding  morning  looked, 
quite  simply,  what  he  really  was:  the  young 
enthusiast,  to  whom  outward  appearance  meant 
Httle  or  nothing,  just  ready  to  start  on  his  jour- 
ney to  Central  Africa. 

His  friend,  the  doctor,  with  whom  David  had 
spent  his  last  night  in  England,  might,  with  his 
frock  coat,  lavender  tie,  and  buttonhole,  easily 
have  been  mistaken  for  the  bridegroom,  as  the 
two  stood  together  in  the  chancel  of  St.  Botolph's. 

"I  cannot  be  your  best  man,  old  boy,"  Sir 
Deryck  had  said,  "because,  years  ago,  I  did, 
myself,  the  best  thing  a  man  can  do.  But  I  will 
come  to  your  wedding,  and  see  you  through,  if 
it  is  really  to  take  place  at  half-past  ten  in  the 


In  Old  St.  Botolph's  213 

morning,  and  if  I  may  be  off  immediately  after- 
wards. You  are  marrying  a  splendid  girl,  old 
chap.  I  only  wish  she  were  going  with  you  to 
Ugonduma.  Yet,  I  admit,  you  are  doing  the 
right  thing  in  refusing  to  let  her  face  the  dangers 
and  hardships  of  such  life  and  travel.  Only — 
David,  old  man — if  you  want  any  married  life 
at  all,  you  must  be  back  within  the  year.  With 
this  unexpected  attraction  drawing  you  to  Eng- 
land and  home,  you  will  hardly  keep  to  your 
former  resolution,  or  remain  for  longer  in  that 
deadly  climate." 

David  had  smiled,  bravely,  and  gripped  the 
doctor's  hand.  "I  must  see  how  the  work  goes 
on,"  he  said;  and  prayed  to  be  forgiven  the 
evasion. 

IMr.  Goldsworthy  was  robing  in  the  vestry, 
and  kept  peeping  out,  in  order  to  make  his  entry 
into  the  chancel  just  before  Diana's  arrival. 
There  could  not,  under  the  circumstances,  be 
much  processioning  in  connection  with  this  wed- 
ding; but,  what  there  was  should  be  dignified,  and 
might  as  well  be  effectively  timed. 

Mr.  Goldsworthy  had  passed  through  some 
strenuous  moments  in  the  vestry  with  David, 
over  the  question  of  omissions  or  non-omissions 
from   the   wedding   service.      He   knew    Diana's 


214        The  Following  of  the  Star 

point  of  view;  in  fact  he  had  received  private 
instructions  from  his  god-daughter  to  bully 
David  into  submission — "just  as  Sarah  bullies 
you,  you  know,  godpapa."  He  knew  Sarah's 
methods  of  bullying,  quite  well;  but  felt  doubtful 
about  applying  them  to  David.  In  fact,  when 
the  question  came  up,  and  the  moment  for  bully- 
ing had  arrived,  he  turned  his  attention  to  but- 
toning his  cassock,  and  meekly  agreed  to  David's 
firmly  expressed  ultimatum. 

You  cannot  button  a  cassock — a  somewhat 
tight  cassock — (why  do  cassocks  display  so  in- 
convenient a  tendency  to  grow  tighter  each  week?) 
and  at  the  same  time  satisfactorily  discuss  a 
difficult  ecclesiastical  point  (why  do  ecclesiasti- 
cal points  become  more  and  more  involved  every 
year?)  with  a  very  determined  young  man.  This 
should  be  his  excuse  to  Diana  for  failing  to 
bully  David  into  submission. 

In  his  heart  of  hearts  he  knew  the  younger 
man  was  right.  He  himself  had  grown  slack 
about  these  matters.  It  was  years  since  he  had 
repeated  the  creed  of  Saint  Athanasius.  It  had 
a  tendency  to  make  him  so  breathless.  When 
David  had  recited  it  on  Christmas  morning,  the 
congregation  had  not  known  where  to  find  it  in 
the  prayer-book;  and  Mr.   Churchwarden  Smith 


In  Old  St.  Botolph's  215 

had  written  the  absent  Rector  an  indignant  letter 
accusing  David  of  popery.  He  was  glad  to  re- 
member that,  in  his  reply,  though  feeling  very 
unequal  to  letter- writing,  he  had  fully  justified 
his  locum-tenens. 

The  clock  struck  the  half-hour.  iMr.  Golds- 
worthy  peeped  out  again. 

David  and  the  doctor  were  walking  quietly 
about  in  the  chancel,  examining  the  quaint  oak 
carvings.  At  that  moment  they  stood,  with 
their  backs  to  the  body  of  the  church,  studying 
the  lectern.  David  did  not  need  to  watch  for 
the  arrival  of  Diana.  He  knew  Mrs.  Marmaduke 
Vane  was  to  enter  first,  with  Mr.  Inglestr}'. 
Diana  had  told  him  she  should  walk  up  the  church 
alone. 

As  yet,  beside  the  usual  church  officials,  Sarah 
Dolman  was  the  only  person  present.  Sarah, 
having  a  married  niece  in  town,  who  could  put 
her  up  for  the  night,  had  insisted  upon  attending 
the  wedding  of  her  dear  Miss  Diana  and  that 
"blessed  young  gentleman,"  of  whom  the  worst 
that  could  be  said,  in  Sarah's  estimation,  appeared 
to  be:  that  it  was  a  pity  there  was  not  more  of 
him! 

She  was  early  at  the  church,  "to  get  a  good 
place";  and  had  shifted  her  seat   several  times, 


2i6        The  Following  of  the  Star 

before  David  arrived.  In  fact  she  tried  so  many 
pews,  that  the  careful  woman  always  on  duty 
as  verger  at  St.  Botolph's,  began  to  look  upon 
her  with  suspicion. 

Sarah  had  feared  she  would  not  succeed  in 
catching  David's  eye;  but  David  had  seen  her 
directly  he  came  into  the  chancel.  He  had  also 
noticed,  in  Sarah's  bonnet,  the  exact  counter- 
part of  Mrs.  Churchwarden  Smith's  red  feather. 
He  knew  at  once  how  much  this  meant,  because 
Sarah  had  told  him  that  she  only  "went  to  beads. " 
Often,  in  the  lonely  times  to  come,  when  David 
chanced  to  see  a  gaily  plumaged  bird,  in  the  great 
forests  of  Ugonduma,  he  thought  of  Sarah's 
bonnet,  and  the  red  feather  worn  in  honour  of 
his  wedding. 

He  now  went  straight  down  the  church,  and 
shook  the  good  woman  by  the  hand:  "Which  was 
beyond  m'  proudest  dreams,"  Sarah  always 
explained  in  telling  the  story  afterwards. 

"Hullo,  Sarah!  How  delightful  of  you  to 
come;  and  how  nice  you  look!"  Then  as  he  felt 
Sarah's  white  cotton  glove  still  warmly  clasping 
his  own  hand,  he  remembered  the  Christmas 
card.  David  possessed  that  priceless  knack  of 
always  remembering  the  things  people  expected 
him  to  remember. 


In  Old  St.  Botolph's  217 

"Sarah,"  he  said,  glancing  down  at  their 
clasped  hands,  "you  should  have  brought  me 
a  buttonhole  of  forget-me-nots." 

Sarah  released  his  hand,  and  held  up  an  im- 
pressive cotton  finger. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Rivers,  sir,"  she  said;  "I  knew  you 
would  say  that.  But  who  could  'a'  thought 
that   card   of   mine    would    ha'    bin   prophetic!" 

"Prophetic?"  repeated  David,  quite  at  a  loss. 

"The  turtle-doves,"  whispered  Sarah,  with  a 
wink,  infinitely  romantic  and  suggestive. 

Then  David  understood.  He  and  Diana  were 
the  pair  of  turtle-doves,  flying  above  the  forget-me- 
nots,  united  by  a  festoon  of  ribbon,  held  in  either 
beak. 

At  first  he  shook  with  silent  laughter.  Good 
old  Sarah,  with  her  prophetic  card!  He  and 
Diana  were  the  turtle-doves!  How  it  would 
amuse  Diana! 

Then  a  sharp  pang  smote  him.  Tragedy  and 
comedy  moved  on  either  side  of  David,  as  he 
walked  back  to  the  chancel. 

He  and  Diana  were  the  turtle-doves. 

Soon  after  the  half-hour,  a  stir  and  bustle 
occurred  at  the  bottom  of  the  church.  Mrs. 
Marmaduke  Vane  entered,  on  the  arm  of  Mr. 
Inglestry.     The   dapper   little   lawyer   was   com- 


2i8        The  Following  of  the  Star 

pletely  overshadowed  by  the  large  and  portly 
person  of  Diana's  chaperon.  She  tinkled  and 
rustled  up  the  church,  all  chains,  and  bangles, 
and  nodding  plumes.  She  seemed  to  be  bowing 
right  and  left  to  the  empty  pews.  Mr.  Ingles- 
try  put  her  into  the  front  seat  on  the  left,  just 
below  the  quaintly  carved  lectern;  then  went 
himself  to  the  vestry  for  a  word  with  Mr.  Golds- 
worthy. 

Sarah,  from  her  pew  on  the  opposite  side, 
glared  at  Mrs.  Marmaduke  Vane.  The  glories 
of  her  own  new  bonnet  and  crimson  feather  had 
suffered  eclipse.  Yet — though  the  nodding  purple 
plumes  opposite  seemed  to  beckon  him — she 
xTiarked,  with  satisfaction,  that  David  did  not 
even  glance  in  their  direction.  She — Sarah — 
had  had  a  handshake  from  the  bridegroom. 
Mrs.  Marmaduke  Vane,  in  all  her  grandeur,  had 
failed  to  catch  his  eye. 

Truth  to  tell,  no  sooner  did  David  become 
aware  of  the  arrival  of  Diana's  chaperon  and  of 
her  lawyer,  who  were,  he  knew,  accompanying 
her,  than  he  ceased  to  have  eyes  for  any  one  or 
anything  save  for  the  place  where  she  herself 
would  presently  appear. 

He  took  up  his  position  alone,  at  the  chancel 
step,  slightly  to  the  right;  and,  standing  sideways 


In  Old  St.  Botolph's  219 

to  the  altar,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  distant 
entrance  at  the  bottom  of  the  church. 

Suddenly,  from  the  organ-loft  above  it,  where 
the  golden  pipes  and  carved  wood  casing  stand 
so  quaintly  on  either  side  of  a  stained-glass  window, 
there  wafted  down  the  softest,  sweetest  strains  of 
tender  harmony.  A  musician,  with  the  touch 
and  soul  of  a  true  artist,  was  playing  a  lovely 
setting  of  David's  own,  to  "Lead,  kindly  Light." 
This  was  a  surprise  of  Diana's.  Diana  loved 
arranging  artistic  surprises. 

In  his  astonishment  and  dehght  at  hearing  so 
unexpected  and  so  beautiful  a  rendering  of  his 
own  theme,  David  lifted  his  eyes  for  a  moment 
to  the  organ-loft. 

During  that  moment  the  door  must  have 
opened  and  closed  without  making  any  sound, 
for,  when  he  dropped  his  eyes  once  more  to  the 
entrance,  there,  at  the  bottom  of  the  church, 
pausing — as  if  uncertain  whether  to  advance  or 
to  retreat — was  standing  his  Lady  of  Mystery. 

David's  heart  stood  still. 

He  had  been  watching  for  Diana — that  bewilder- 
ing compound  of  sweetness  and  torment,  for  whose 
sake  he  had  undertaken  to  do  this  thing — and 
here  was  his  own  dear  Lady  of  Mystery,  the 
personification  of  softness  and  of  silence,  waiting 


220        The  Following  of  the  Star 

irresolute  at  the  bottom  of  this  great  London 
church,  just  as  she  had  waited  in  the  Httle  church 
at  Brambledene,  on  that  Sunday  evening,  seven 
weeks  ago. 

How  far  Diana  consciously  intended  to  appear 
thus  to  David,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say;  but 
she  purposely  wore  in  every  detail  just  what  she 
had  been  wearing  on  the  Sunday  evening  when  he 
saw  her  first;  and  possibly  the  remembrance  of 
that  evening,  now  also  strongly  in  her  own  mind, 
accounted  for  her  seeming  once  more  to  be  en- 
veloped in  that  atmosphere  of  soft,  silent  detach- 
ment from  the  outer  world,  which  had  led  David 
to  call  her  his  Lady  of  Mystery. 

In  a  swift  flash  of  self -revelation,  David  realised, 
more  clearly  than  before,  that  he  had  loved  this 
girl  he  was  now  going  to  marry,  ever  since  he 
first  saw  her,  standing  as  she  now  stood — tall, 
graceful,  irresolute;  uncertain  whether  to  advance 
or  to  retreat. 

Down  the  full  length  of  that  dimly  lighted 
church,  David's  look  met  the  hesitating  sweet- 
ness of  those  soft  grey  eyes;  met,  and  held  them. 

Then — as  if  the  deep  earnestness  of  his  gaze 
drew  her  to  him,  she  moved  slowly  and  softly 
up  the  church  to  take  her  place  beside  him. 

The  fragrance  of  violets  came  with  her.     She 


In  Old  St.  Botolph's  221 

seemed  wafted  to  him,  in  the  dim  light,  by  the 
melody  of  his  own  organ  music:  "Lead,  kindly 
Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom;  lead  Thou  me 
on." 

David's  senses  reeled.  He  turned  to  the  altar, 
and  closed  his  eyes. 

When  he  opened  them  again,  his  Lady  of  Mys- 
tery stood  at  his  side,  and  the  opening  words 
of  the  marriage  service  broke  the  silence  of  the 
empty  church. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Diana's  readjustment 

F^IANA  had  waited  a  minute  or  two  in  the 
•*— ^  motor,  in  order  to  allow  time  for  the 
entrance  and  seating  of  Mrs.  Vane;  also,  Mr. 
Inglestry  was  to  give  the  signal  to  the  musi- 
cian at  the  organ. 

Even  after  she  had  left  the  motor,  and  walked 
down  the  stone  paving,  leading  from  Bishops- 
gate  to  the  main  entrance  of  St.  Botolph's,  she 
paused,  watching  the  sparrows  and  pigeons  at 
the  fountain,  in  the  garden  enclosure — now  very 
bare  and  leafless — opposite  the  church.  Here 
she  waited  until  she  heard  the  strains  of  organ 
music  within.  Then  she  pushed  open  the  door, 
and  entered. 

Once  inside,  a  sudden  feeling  of  awe  and  hesi- 
tancy overwhelmed  Diana.  There  seemed  an  un- 
usual brooding  sense  of  sanctity  about  this  old 
church.  All  light,  which  entered  there,  filtered 
devoutly  through  some  sacred  scene,  and  still 
bore  upon  its  beams  the  apostle's  halo,  the  Vir- 


Diana's  Readjustment  223 

gin's  robe,  or  the  radiance  of  transfiguration 
glory. 

The  shock  of  contrast,  as  Diana  passed  from  the 
noise  and  whirl  of  Bishopsgate's  busy  traffic 
into  this  silent  waiting  atmosphere  of  stained 
glass,  old  oak  carving,  and  the  sheen  of  the 
distant  altar,  held  her  senses  for  a  moment  in 
abeyance. 

Then  she  took  in  every  detail :  Mr.  Goldsworthy 
peeping  from  the  vestry,  catching  sight  of  her, 
and  immediately  proceeding  within  the  com- 
munion rails,  and  kneeling  at  the  table;  Mrs. 
Nane  and  Mr.  Inglestry  on  one  side  of  the  church ; 
Sarah  and  Sir  Deryck,  in  different  pews,  on  the 
other.  Lastly,  she  saw  David,  and  the  place  at 
his  side  which  awaited  her;  David,  looking  very 
sHm  and  youthful,  standing  with  his  left  hand 
plunged  deep  into  the  pocket  of  his  short  coat 
— a  boyish  attitude  he  often  unconsciously 
adopted  in  moments  of  nervous  strain.  Slight 
and  boyish  he  looked  in  figure;  but  the  intel- 
lectual strength  and  spiritual  power  in  the  thin 
face  had  never  been  more  apparent  to  Diana 
than  at  this  moment,  as  he  stood  with  his  head 
slightly  thrown  back,  awaiting  her  advance. 

Then  a  complete  mental  readjustment  came  to 
Diana.     How   could   she   go   through   with    this 


224        The  Following  of  the  Star 

marriage,  for  which  she  herself  had  worked  and 
schemed?  It  suddenly  stood  revealed  as  a  thing 
so  much  more  sacred,  so  far  more  holy,  so  infi- 
nitely deeper  in  its  significance,  than  she  had 
ever  realised. 

She  knew,  now,  why  David  had  felt  it  impos- 
sible, at  first,  for  any  reasons  save  the  one  para- 
mount cause — the  reverent  seeking  of  the  Church's 
sanction  and  blessing  upon  the  union  of  two 
people  who  needed  one  another  utterly. 

Had  she  loved  David — had  David  loved  her — 
she  could  have  moved  swiftly  to  his  side,  with- 
out a  shade  of  hesitancy. 

As  it  M^as,  her  feet  seemed  to  refuse  to  carry 
her  one  step  forward. 

Then  Diana  realised  that  had  this  ceremony 
been  about  to  take  place  in  order  that  the  bene- 
fits accruing  to  her  under  her  uncle's  will  should 
remain  hers,  she  must,  at  that  moment,  have 
fled  back  to  the  motor,  bidding  the  chauffeur 
drive  off — anywhere,  anywhere — where  she  would 
never  see  St.  Botolph's  church  again,  or  look  upon 
the  face  of  David  Rivers. 

But,  by  the  happenings  of  the  previous  evening, 
the  conditions  were  changed — ah,  thank  God, 
they  were  changed!  David  still  thought  he  was 
doing  this  for  her;  but  she  knew  she  was  doing 


Diana's  Readjustment  225 

it  for  him.  He  believed  he  gave  her  all.  She 
knew  he  actually  gave  her  nothing,  save  this 
honest  desire  to  give  her  all.  And,  in  return, 
she  could  give  him  much: — not  herself — that  he 
did  not  want — but  much,  oh,  much! 

All  this  passed  through  Diana's  mind,  in  those 
few  moments  of  paralysing  indecision,  while 
she  stood,  startled  and  unnerved,  beneath  the 
gallery. 

Then,  as  her  eyes  grew  more  accustomed  to  the 
dim  light,  David's  look  reached  her — reached 
her,  and  called  her  to  his  side. 

And  down  from  the  organ-loft  wafted  the 
prayer  for  all  uncertain  souls:  "Lead,  kindly 
Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom;  lead  Thou 
— lead  Thou — lead  Thou  me  on." 

With  this  prayer  on  her  lips,  and  her  eyes 
held  by  the  summons  in  David's,  Diana  moved 
up  the  church,  and  took  her  place  at  his  side. 

No  word  of  the  service  penetrated  her  con- 
sciousness, until  she  heard  her  godfather's  voice 
inquire,  in  confidential  tones:  "Who  giveth  this 
woman  to  be  married  to  this  man?" 

No  one  replied.  Apparently  no  one  took  the 
responsibility  of  giving  her  to  David,  to  whom 
she  did  not  really  give  herself.  But  in  the  silence 
of  the  slight  pause  following  the  question,  Uncle 

IS 


226        The  Following  of  the  Star 

Falcon's  voice  said,  with  startling  clearness,  in 
her  ear:  ''Diana — I  have  won.'' 

This  inarticulate  sentence  seemed  to  Diana  the 
clearest  thing  in  the  whole  of  that  service.  She 
often  wondered  afterwards  why  all  actual  spoken 
words  had  held  so  Httle  conscious  meaning.  She 
could  recall  the  strong  clasp  of  David's  hand, 
and  when  his  voice,  steadfast  yet  quiet,  said: 
"I  will,"  she  looked  at  him  and  smiled;  simply 
because  his  voice  seemed  the  only  real  and  natural 
thing  in  the  whole  service. 

When  they  walked  up  the  chancel  together, 
and  knelt  at  the  altar  rail,  she  raised  her  eyes 
to  the  pictured  presentment  of  the  crucified 
Christ;  but  there  was  something  too  painful  to 
be  borne,  in  the  agony  of  that  suffering  form  as 
pictured  there.  "Myrrh!"  cried  her  troubled 
heart;  "myrrh,  was  His  final  offering.  Must 
gold  and  frankincense  always  culminate  in 
myrrh?" 


In  the  vestry,  Sir  Deryck  Brand  was  the  first 
to  offer  well-expressed  congratulations.  But, 
after  the  signing  of  the  registers,  as  he  took  her 
hand  in  his  in  bidding  her  farewell,  he  said  with 
quiet    emphasis:    "I    have    told    your    husband, 


Diana's  Readjustment  227 

Mrs.  Rivers,  that  he  must  come  home  within  the 
year," 

Diana,  at  a  loss  what  to  answer,  turned  to 
David. 

"Do  you  hear  that,  David?" 

"Yes,"  said  David,  gently;  "I  hear." 

As  they  passed  out  together,  her  hand  resting 
hghtly  on  David's  arm,  Diana  looked  up  and  saw 
above  the  organ  gallery,  between  the  golden  pipes, 
the  beautiful  stained-glass  window,  representing 
the  Infant  Christ  brought  by  His  mother  to  the  tem- 
ple, and  taken  into  the  arms  of  the  aged  Simeon. 

"Oh,  look,  David,"  whispered  Diana;  "I  like 
this  window  better  than  the  others.  It  does 
not  give  us  our  Wise  Men  from  the  East,  but  it 
gives  us  the  newborn  King.  Do  you  see  Him 
in  the  arms  of  Simeon?" 

David  lifted  his  eyes;  and  suddenly  she  saw 
the  Hght  of  a  great  joy  dawn  in  them. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "yes.  And  do  you  remember 
what  Simeon  said?" 

They  had  reached  the  threshold  of  St.  Botolph's. 
Diana  took  her  hand  from  his  coat  sleeve;  and, 
pausing  a  moment,  looked  into  his  face. 

"What  did  he  say,  David?" 

"Lord,  7WW  lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart 
in  peace,"  replied  David,  quietly. 


228        The  Following  of  the  Star  , 

"And  what  have  you  just  remembered,  David, 
which  has  filled  your  face  with  glory?" 

"That  this  afternoon,  I  start  for  Central 
Africa,"  replied  David  Rivers,  as  he  put  his  bride 
into  the  motor. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
David's  nunc  dimittis 

THE  doctor  was  responsible  for  Diana's  shy- 
ness during  the  drive  from  St.  Botolph's 
to  Waterloo. 

He  had  said:  ''I  have  told  your  husband,  Mrs. 
Rivers."  This  was  unlike  Sir  Deryck's  usual 
tact.  It  seemed  so  impossible  that  that  dream- 
like service  had  transformed  her  from  Miss 
Rivers,  into  Mrs.  Rivers;  and  it  was  so  very  much 
calling  "a  spade  a  spade,"  to  speak  of  David  as 
"  your  husband. " 

The  only  thing  which  as  yet  stood  out  clearly 
to  Diana  in  the  whole  service,  was  David's  reso- 
lute "I  will";  and  the  essential  part  of  David's 
"I  will,"  in  his  own  mind,  and  therefore  of  course 
in  hers,  appeared  to  be:  "I  will  go  at  once  to 
Central  Africa;  and  I  will  start  for  that  distant 
spot  in  four  hours'  time!" 

Diana  took  herself  instantly  to  task  for  the 
pang  she  had  experienced  at  sight  of  the  sudden 

229 


230        The  Following  of  the  Star 

flash  of  intense  relief  in  David's  eyes,  as  he 
quoted  the  Nunc  Dimittis. 

That  he  should  "depart"  on  the  wedding- 
day,  had  been  an  indispensable  factor  in  the 
making  of  her  plan;  and,  that  he  should  depart 
"in  peace,"  untroubled  by  the  fact  that  he  was 
leaving  her,  was  surely  a  cause  for  thanksgiving, 
rather  than  for  regret. 

Diana,  who  prided  herself  upon  being  far 
removed  from  all  ordinary  feminine  weaknesses 
and  failings,  now  rated  herself  scornfully  for  the 
utter  unreasonableness  of  feeling  hurt  at  David's 
very  obvious  relief  over  the  prospect  of  a  speedy 
departure,  now  he  had  faithfully  fulfilled  the 
letter  of  the  undertaking  between  them.  He 
had  generously  done  as  she  had  asked,  at  the 
cost  of  much  preliminary  heart-searching  and 
perplexity;  yet  she,  whose  express  stipulation 
had  been  that  he  should  go,  now  grudged  the  ease 
with  which  he  was  going,  and  would  have  had 
him  a  little  sad — a  little  sorry. 

"Oh,"  cried  Diana,  giving  herself  a  mental 
shake,  "it  is  unreasonable;  it  is  odious;  it  is  like 
an  ordinary  woman!  I  don't  want  the  poor  boy 
to  stay,  so  why  should  I  want  him  to  regret  going? 
How  perfectly  natural  that  he  should  be  relieved 
that  this  complicated  time  is  over;  and  how  glad 


David's  Nunc  Dimittis  231 

/  ought  to  be,  that  whatever  else  connected  with 
me  he  has  found  difficult,  at  all  events  he  finds 
it  easy  to  leave  me!  Any  mild  regrets  would 
spoil  the  whole  thing,  and  reduce  us  to  the  level 
of  an  ordinary  couple.  Sir  Der>xk's  remark  in 
the  vestry  was  most  untactful.  No  wonder  it 
has  had  the  immediate  effect  of  making  us  both 
realise  with  relief  that,  excepting  in  outward 
seeming,  we  each  leave  the  church  as  free  as 
when  we  entered  it." 

Yet,  undoubtedly  David  was  now  her  husband; 
and  as  Diana  sat  silently  beside  him,  she  felt  as 
an  experienced  fighter  might  feel,  who  had  handed 
over  all  his  weapons  to  the  enemy.  What  ad- 
vantage would  David  take,  of  this  new  condition 
of  things,  during  the  four  hours  which  remained 
to  him?     She  felt  defenceless. 

Diana  plunged  both  her  hands  into  her  muff. 
If  David  took  one  of  them,  there  was  no  knowing 
what  might  happen  next.  She  remembered  the 
compelling  power  of  his  eyes,  as  they  drew  her 
up  the  church,  to  take  her  place  at  his  side.  How 
would  she  feel,  what  would  she  do,  if  he  turned 
and  looked  so,  at  her — now? 

But  David  appeared  to  bo  quite  intent  on  the 
sights  of  London,  eagerly  looking  his  last  upon 
each  well-known  spot. 


232        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"I  am  glad  this  is  a  hired  motor,"  he  said, 
"and  not  your  own  chauffeur.  This  fellow  does 
not  drive  so  rapidly.  One  gets  a  chance  to  look 
out  of  the  window.  Ah,  here  is  the  Bank  of 
England.  I  have  never  felt  much  interest  in 
that.  But  I  like  seeing  the  Royal  Exchange, 
because  of  the  Prince  Consort's  text  on  the 
marble  slab,  high  up  in  the  centre  of  its 
fagade." 

They  were  held  up  for  a  moment  in  the  stream 
of  cross- traffic. 

"My  father  pointed  it  out  to  me  when  I  was 
a  very  little  chap,"  continued  David.  "I  really 
must  see  it  again,  for  the  last  time." 

He  leaned  forward  to  look  up  through  the 
window  on  her  side  of  the  motor.  His  arm 
rested  for  a  moment  against  Diana's  knee. 

"Yes,  there  it  -is,  in  golden  letters,  on  the 
marble  slab!  'The  earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the 
fulness  thereof.'  Was  n't  it  a  grand  idea?  That 
those  words  should  dominate  this  wonderful 
centre  of  the  world's  commerce,  wealth,  and  enter- 
prise. As  if  so  great,  so  mighty,  so  influential  a 
nation  as  our  own,  upon  whose  glorious  flag 
the  sun  never  sets,  is  yet  humbly  proud  to  look 
up  and  inscribe,  in  letters  of  gold,  upon  the  -v^ery 
pinnacle   of   her   supremacy:    'The  earth  is  the 


David's  Nunc  Dimittis  233 

Lord's!'  All  this  wealth,  all  this  power;  these 
noble  colonies,  this  world-encircling  influence, 
may  be  mine;  but — 'The  earth   is  the  Lord's.''' 

David's  eyes  glowed.  "I  am  glad  I  have  seen 
it  once  more.  It  is  not  so  clear  as  when,  holding 
tightly  to  my  father's  hand,  I  first  looked  up  and 
saw  it,  twenty-two  years  ago.  The  letters  are 
tarnished.  If  I  were  a  rich  man,  I  should  like  to 
have  them  regilt." 

"You  are  a  rich  man,"  said  Diana,  smiling, 
"and  it  shall  be  done,  David,  if  private  enter- 
prise is  allowed  the  privilege." 

"Ah,  thanks,"  said  David.  "That  v/ould 
really  please  me.  You  must  write  and  say  whether 
it  proved  possible.  Sometimes  when  alone,  in 
the  utter  silence  of  our  great  expanse  of  jungle 
and  forest,  I  like  to  picture  the  rush  and  rumble, 
the  perpetual  movement  of  this  very  heart  of 
our  grand  old  London,  going  on — on — on,  all  the 
time.  It  is  my  final  farewell  to  it,  to-day.  Ah, 
here  is  the  Mansion  House.  On  the  day  my  old 
dad  showed  me  the  Royal  Exchange,  we  also 
saw  the  Lord  Mayor's  show.  I  remember  I 
was  much  impressed.  I  fully  intended  then  to 
be  Lord  Mayor,  one  day!  I  always  used  to 
imagine  myself  as  being  every  important  person- 
age I  admired." 


234        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"You  remind  me,"  said  Diana,  "of  a  very 
great  man  of  whom  it  has  been  said  that  he  never 
enjoys  a  wedding,  because  he  cannot  be  the 
bride;  and  that  he  hates  attending  funerals, 
because  he  cannot  be  the  corpse." 

David  laughed.  "  A  clever  skit  on  an 
undoubted  trait,"  he  said;  "but  that  trait 
makes  for  greatness.  All  who  climb  high 
see  themselves  at  the  top  of  the  tree,  long 
before  they  get  there."  Then  suddenly  he 
remarked:  "There  won't  be  any  eclat  about 
my  funeral.  It  will  be  a  very  simple  affair; 
just  a  stowing  away  of  the  worn-out  suit  of 
clothes,  imder  a  great  giant  tree  in  our  silent 
forests." 

"Please  don't  be  nasty,"  said  Diana;  and, 
though  the  words  were  abrupt,  there  was  such  a 
note  of  pain  in  her  voice,  that  David  turned  and 
looked  at  her.  There  was  also  pain  in  her  sweet 
grey  eyes.  David  put  out  his  hand,  impulsively, 
and  laid  it  on  Diana's  muff. 

"You  must  not  mind  the  thought,"  he  said. 
"We  know  it  has  to  come;  and  I  want  you  to 
get  used  to  it,  just  as  I  have  done.  To  me  it 
only  seems  like  a  future  plan  for  a  quite  easy 
journey ;  only  there  's  a  lot  to  be  done  first.  Oh, 
I  say!     The  Thames!     May  I  tell  the  man  to  go 


David's  Nunc  Dimittis  235 

along  the  Embankment,  and  over  Westminster 
Bridge?  I  should  like  a  last  sight  of  the  Houses 
of  Parliament,  and  Big  Ben;  and,  best  of  all,  of 
Westminster  Abbey. " 

David  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  directed 
the    chauffeur. 

Diana  slipped  her  hands  out  of  her  muff. 

They  passed  the  royal  statue  of  England's 
great  and  beloved  Queen.  David  leaned  forward 
and  saluted. 

"The  memory  of  the  Just  is  blessed,"  he  said. 
"I  always  like  to  realise  how  truly  the  Royal 
Psalm  applies  to  our  Queen  Victoria.  'Thou 
gavest  him  a  long  life;  even  forever  and  ever.' 
She  lives  on  forever  in  the  hearts  of  her  i)eople. 
This — is  true  immortality!" 

Diana  removed  her  gloves,  and  looked  at  the 
bright  new  wedding-ring,  encircling  the  third 
finger  of  her  left  hand. 

David  glanced  at  it  also,  and  looked  away. 

"Good-bye,  old  Metropole!"  he  said,  as 
they  sped  past  Northumberland  Avenue.  "We 
have  had  some  jolly  times  there.  Ah,  here 
is  the  Abbey!  I  must  set  my  watch  by  Big 
Ben." 

"Would  you  like  to  stop,  and  go  into  the 
Abbey?"  suggested  Diana.     "We  have  time." 


236        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"No,  I  think  not,"  said  David.  "I  made  my 
final  adieu  to  English  cathedrals  at  Winchester, 
last  Monday.  And  I  had  such  a  surprise  and 
pleasure  there.  Nothing  the  Abbey  could  pro- 
vide would  equal  it." 

"What  was  that?"  asked  Diana,  and  her 
hand  stole  very  near  to  David's. 

David  folded  his  arms  across  his  breast,  and 
turned  to  her  with  delight  in  his  eyes, 

"Why,  the  day  before  you  came  to  town,  I 
went  down  to  Winchester  to  say  good-bye  to 
some  very  old  friends.  Before  leaving  that 
beautiful  city  I  went  into  the  cathedral,  and 
there  I  found — what  do  you  think?  A  side- 
chapel  called  the  Chapel  of  the  Epiphany,  with 
a  stained-glass  window  representing  the  Wise 
Men  opening  their  treasures  and  offering  their 
gifts  to  the  Infant  Saviour." 

"Were  there  three  Wise  Men?"  asked  Diana. 
For  some  reason,  her  lips  were  trembling. 

David  smiled.  "Yes,  there  were  three.  Mrs. 
Churchwarden  Smith  would  have  considered  her 
opinion  triumphantly  vindicated.  But,  do  you 
know,  that  little  chapel  was  such  a  holy  place.  I 
knelt  there  and  prayed  that  I  might  live  to  see 
the  completion  and  consecration  of  our  'Church 
of  the  Holy  Star.'  " 


David's  Nunc  Dimittis  237 

Diana  drew  on  her  gloves,  and  slipped  her 
hands  back  into  her  muff. 

"Where  did  you  kneel,  David?  I  will  make 
a  pilgrimage  to  Canterbury,  and  kneel  there 
too." 

"It  wasn't  Canterbury',"  said  David  gently. 
"It  was  Winchester.  I  knelt  at  the  altar  rail; 
right  in  the  middle." 

"I  will  go  there,"  said  Diana.  "And  I  will 
kneel  where  you  knelt,  David. " 

"  Do, "  said  David,  simply.  "That  Httle  chapel 
meant  a  lot  to  me." 

They  had  turned  out  of  York  Road,  and 
plunged  into  the  dark  subway  leading  up  to 
the  main  station  at  Waterloo. 

Diana  lifted  her  muff  to  her  lips,  and  looked  at 
David  over  it,  with  starr>^  eyes. 

"Shall  you  remember  sometimes,  David,  when 
you  are  so  far  away,  that  I  am  making  pilgrim- 
ages, and  doing  these  things  which  you  have 
done?" 

"Of  course  I  shall,"  said  David.  "Why, 
here  we  are;  with  plenty  of  time  to  spare." 

He  saw  Diana  to  their  reserved  compartment 
in  the  boat  train ;  then  went  off  to  the  cloak-room 
to  find  his  luggage. 

Before  long  they  were  gliding  out  of  Waterloo 


238        The  Following  of  the  Star 

Station,  and  David  Rivers  had  looked  his  last  on 
London;  and  had  bidden  a  silent  farewell  to  all 
for  which  London  stands,  to  the  heart  of  every 
true-bom  Englishman. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

DAVID  STUDIES  THE  SCENERY 

T^HE  railway  journey  passed  with  surprising 
*  ease  and  swiftness.  David's  unusually  high 
spirits  were  perhaps  responsible  for  this. 

To  Diana  it  seemed  that  their  positions  were 
suddenly  and  unaccountably  reversed.  David 
led,  and  she  followed.  David  set  the  tone  of  the 
conversation;  and,  as  he  chose  that  it  should  be 
gay  and  bantering,  Diana  found  it  impossible  to 
strike  the  personal  and  pathetic  note,  bordering 
on  the  intimate  and  romantic,  which  she,  some- 
how, now  felt  suitable  to  the  occasion. 

So  they  had  a  merry  wedding-breakfast  in  the 
dining-car;  and  laughed  much  over  the  fact 
that  they  had  left  Mrs.  Marmaduke  Vane,  with 
two  strings  to  her  bow — Diana's  godfather,  and 
Diana's  lawyer. 

"Both  are  old  flames  of  Chappie's,"  explained 

Diana.     "She   will   be   between   two   fires.     But 

I    am    inclined    to    think    Sarah's    presence    will 

239 


240        The  Following  of  the  Star 

quench  godpapa's  ardour.  In  which  case,  Mr. 
Inglestry  will  carry  Chappie  off  to  luncheon,  and 
will  probably  dance  attendance  upon  her  during 
the  remainder  of  the  day.  After  which,  even  if 
he  does  not  actually  propose,  I  shall  have  to  hear 
the  oft -told  tale:  'He  made  his  meaning  very 
clear,  my  dear  Diana.'  How  clever  all  these 
old  boys  must  be,  to  be  perpetually  'making 
their  meaning  clear'  to  Chappie,  which,  I  admit, 
must  be  a  fascinating  occupation,  and  yet 
remaining  triumphantly  unwed!  Chappie  does 
not  return  home  until  to-morrow.  David — I 
shall   be   quite  alone   at   Riverscourt   to-night." 

"Oh,  look  at  the  undulating  line  of  those  dis- 
tant hills!"  cried  David,  polishing  the  window 
with  his  table-napkin.  "And  the  gorse  in  bloom, 
on  this  glorious  common.  It  seems  a  waste  to 
look  for  a  moment  on  one's  plate,  while  passing, 
for  the  last  time,  through  beautiful  England. 
Even  in  winter  this  scenery  is  lovely,  gentle, 
home-like.  I  don't  want  to  miss  the  sight  of 
one  cosy  farmhouse,  leafless  orchard,  nestling 
village,  or  old  church  tower.  All  upon  which 
I  am  now  looking,  will  be  memory's  treasured 
picture-gallery  to  visit  eagerly  in  the  long  months 
to  come." 

Apparently  there  were  to  be  only  landscapes 


David  Studies  the  Scenery        241 

in  David's  picture  gallery.  Portraits,  however 
lovely,  were  not  admitted.  A  very  lovely  face 
was  opposite  to  him  at  the  little  table.  A  firm 
white  chin  rested  thoughtfully  in  the  rounded 
palm  of  the  hand  on  which  gleamed  his  golden 
wedding-ring.  Soft  grey  eyes,  half-veiled  by 
drooping  lids  and  long  dark  lashes,  looked  wist- 
fully, earnestly,  at  the  thin  lines  of  his  strong 
eager  face.  Diana  was  striving  to  imprint  upon 
her  memory  a  portrait  of  David,  which  should 
not  fade.  But  David  polished  the  window  at 
intervals  with  his  table-napkin,  and  assiduously 
studied  Hampshire  orchards,  and  frost-covered 
fields  and  gardens. 


Back  in  their  own  compartment,  within  an 
hour  of  Southampton,  Diana  made  a  desperate 
attempt  to  arrive  at  a  clear  understanding  about 
the  rapidly  approaching  future — those  two  years, 
possibly  three,  while  they  would  be  husband  and 
wife,  yet  on  different  sides  of  the  globe. 

She  was  sitting  beside  David,  who  occupied 
the  comer  seat,  facing  the  engine,  on  her  left. 
Diana  had  been  seated  in  the  comer  opposite 
to  him;  but  had  crossed  over,  in  order  to  sit 
beside  him;  and  now  asked  him,  on  pretext  of 

t6 


242        The  Following  of  the  Star 

being  dazzled,  to  draw  down  the  blinds  on  his 
side  of  the  compartment. 

David  complied  at  once,  shutting  out  the  pale 
wintry  sunlight;  which,  pale  though  it  was,  yet 
made  a  golden  glory  of  Diana's  hair. 

Thus  excluded  from  his  refuge  in  the  leafless 
orchards,  David  laimched  into  a  graphic  descrip- 
tion of  the  difficulties  and  adventure  of  African 
travel. 

"You  see,"  he  was  saying,  "the  jungle  grasses 
grow  to  such  a  height  that  it  becomes  almost 
impossible  to  force  one's  way  through  them; 
and  they  make  equally  good  cover  for  wild  beasts, 
or  mosquitos" — when  Diana  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  coat  sleeve. 

Either  the  sleeve  was  thick,  or  David  was 
dense — or  both.  The  accoimt  of  African  swamps 
continued,  with  increased  animation. 

"As  soon  as  the  wet  season  is  over,  the  natives 
fire  the  grass  all  around  their  villages;  and  then 
wild  beasts  get  no  cover  for  close  approach; 
shooting  becomes  possible,  and  the  women  can 
get  down  to  the  river  to  fetch  water,  or  into  the 
forests  to  cut  firewood.  The  burning  kills  mil- 
Hons  of  mosquitos,  makes  it  possible  to  go  out 
in  safety,  and  to  shoot  game.  When  the  grass 
is  high,  mosquitos  are  rampant,  and  game  impos- 


David  Studies  the  Scenery        243 

sible  to  view.  Before  the  burning  was  done 
round  my  place,  last  year,  I  found  a  hippopota- 
mus in  my  flower  garden,  when  I  came  down  to 
breakfast  one  morning.  He  had  danced  a  cake- 
walk  among  my  oleanders,  which  was  a  trial, 
because  oleanders  bloom  gloriously  all  the  year 
round  when  once  they  get  a  hold. " 

Suddenly  Diana  turned  upon  him,  took  his 
right  hand  between  both  hers,  and  caught  it  to 
her,  impulsively. 

"David,"  she  said,  "do  you  consider  it  right 
in  our  last  hour  together,  completely  to  ignore 
the  person  you  have  just  married?" 

David's  startled  face  showed  very  white  against 
the  green  window-blind. 

"I — I  was  not  ignoring  you,"  he  stammered, 
"I  was  telling  you  about " 

"Oh,  I  know!"  cried  Diana,  uncontrollable 
pain  in  her  voice,  and  the  look  of  a  wounded 
leopard  in  her  eyes,  "Bother  your  tall  grasses, 
and  your  oleanders,  and  your  hippopotamus!" 
Then  more  gently,  but  still  holding  his  hand 
pressed  against  her  velvet  coat:  "Oh,  don't  let 's 
quarrel,  David!  I  don't  want  to  be  horrid! 
But  we  can't  ignore  the  fact  that  we  were  married 
this  morning;  and  you  are  wasting  the  only  time 
left  to  us,  in  which  to  discuss  our  future." 


244        The  Following  of  the  Star 

David  gently  drew  away  his  hand,  folded  his 
arms  across  his  breast,  leaned  back  in  his  comer, 
and  looked  at  Diana,  with  that  expression  of 
patient  tenderness  which  always  had  the  effect 
of  making  her  feel  absurdly  young,  and  far  re- 
moved from  him. 

"Have  we  not  said  all  there  is  to  say  about  it? " 
he  asked,  gently. 

u"  "  No,  silly,  we  have  not ! "  cried  Diana,  furiously. 
"Oh,  how  glad  I  am  that  you  are  going  to  Central 
Africa!" 

David's  face  whitened  to  a  terrible  pallor. 

"There  is  nothing  new  in  that, "  he  said,  speak- 
ing very  low.  "It  has  been  understood  all 
along." 

"Oh,  David,  forgive  me,"  cried  Diana.  "I 
did  not  mean  to  say  anything  imkind.  But  I 
am  so  miserable  and  unhappy;  and  if  you  say 
another  word  about  Hampshire  scenery  or  African 
travel,  I  shall  either  swear  and  break  the  windows, 
or  fall  upon  yoiu-  shoulder  and  weep.  Either 
course  would  involve  you  in  an  unpleasant  pre- 
dicament. So,  for  your  own  sake,  help  me, 
David." 

David's  earnest  eyes  searched  her  face. 

"How  can  I  help  you?"  he  asked,  his  deep 
voice  vibrating  with  an  intensity  which  assured 


David  Studies  the  Scenery        245 

Diana  of  having  gained  at  last  his  full  attention. 
"What  has  made  you  miserable?" 

"Our  wedding-service,"  replied  Diana,  with 
tears  in  her  voice.  "It  meant  so  much  more 
than  I  had  ever  dreamed  it  possibly  could  mean. " 

Then  a  look  leapt  into  David's  eyes  such  as 
Diana  had  never  seen  in  mortal  eyes,  before. 

"How?"  he  said;  the  one  word  holding  so 
much  of  question,  of  amazement,  of  hope,  of 
suspense,  that  its  utterance  seemed  to  arrest  the 
train;  to  stop  the  beating  of  both  their  hearts; 
to  stay  the  universe  a  breathing  space;  while 
he  looked,  with  a  world  of  agonised  hope  and 
yearning,  into  those  sweet  grey  eyes,  brimming 
over  with  tears. 

Perhaps  the  tears  blinded  them  to  the  meaning 
of  the  look  in  David's.  Anyway,  his  sudden 
"How?'^  bursting  as  a  bomb-shell  into  the  silent 
railway-carriage,  only  brought  an  expression  of 
startled  surprise,  to  add  to  the  trouble  in  Diana's 
sweet  face. 

David  pulled  himself  together. 

"How?"  he  asked  again,  more  gently;  while 
the  train,  the  hearts,  and  the  universe  went  on 
once  more. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Diana,  with  a  little 
break  in  her  voice.     "I  think  I  reahsed  suddenly, 


246        The  Following  of  the  Star 

how  much  it  might  mean  between  two  people 
who  really  cared  for  one  another — I  mean  really 
loved — for  we  do  'care';  don't  we,  Cousin  David?" 
-7' Yes,  we  do  care,"  said  David,  gently. 

" I  want  you  to  talk  to  me  about  it;  because  the 
service  was  so  much  more  solemn  than  I  had 
expected;  I  have  nerer  been  at  any  but  flippant 
weddings — what?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  weddings  are 
often  'flippant,'  Cousin  David.  But  ours  was 
not.  And  I  am  so  afraid,  after  you  are  gone,  it 
will  come  back  and  haunt  me.  I  want  you  to 
tell  me,  quite  plainly,  how  Httle  it  really  meant; 
although  it  seemed  to  mean  so  appallingly  much. " 

David  laid  his  hand  gently  on  hers,  as  it  lay 
upon  her  muff,  and  the  restless  working  of  her 
fingers  ceased. 

"It  meant  no  more,"  he  said,  quietly,  "than  we 
intended  it  should  mean.  It  meant  nothing 
which  could  cause  you  distress  or  trouble.  All 
was  quite  clear  between  us,  beforehand;  was  it 
not?  That  service  meant  for  you — your  home, 
your  fortune,  your  position  in  the  county,  yoiu* 
influence  for  good;  deHverance  from  undesired 
suitors;  and — I  hope — a  friend  you  can  trust — 
though  far  away — until  death  takes  him — 
farther." 

He  kept  his  hand  lightly  on  hers,  and  Diana's 


David  Studies  the  Scenery        247 

mind  grew  restful.  She  laid  her  other  hand  over 
his.     She  was  so  afraid  he  would  take  it  away. 

"Oh,  go  on  David, "  she  said.     " I  feel  better. " 

"You  must  not  let  it  haunt  you  when  I  am 
gone,"  continued  David.  "You  urged  me  to  do 
this  thing,  for  a  given  reason;  and,  when  once 
I  felt  convinced  we  were  not  wrong  in  doing  it, 
I  went  through  with  it,  as  I  had  promised  you 
I  would.  There  was  nothing  in  that  to  frighten 
or  to  distress  you.  We  could  not  help  it  that 
the  service  was  so  wonderful.  That  was  partly 
your  fault,"  added  David,  with  a  gentle  smile, 
"for  providing  organ  music,  and  for  choosing  to 
impersonate  my  Lady  of  Mystery." 

Diana  considered  this.  Then:  "Oh,  I  am  so 
comforted.  Cousin  David,"  she  said,  "I  was  so 
horribly  afraid  it  had — somehow — meant  more 
than  I  wanted  it  to  mean," 

"How  could  it  have  meant  more  than  you 
wanted  it  to  mean?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  begin  to  think  Uncle  Falcon 
was  right,  when  he  called  me  ignorant  and 
inexperienced." 

David  laughed.  "Oh,  you  mustn't  begin  to 
give  in  to  Uncle  Falcon,"  he  said.  "And  to- 
day, of  all  days,  when  our  campaign  has  suc- 
ceeded, and  we  have  defeated  him.     You  can  go 


248        The  Following  of  the  Star 

into  the  library  this  evening,  look  Uncle  Falcon 
full  in  the  eyes,  and  say:  'Uncle  Falcon,  /  have 
won!'  " 

"Can  I?"  said  Diana,  doubtfully.  "I  am  a 
little  bit  afraid  of  Uncle  Falcon.  I  could,  if 
you  were  there,  Cousin  David." 

David  tried  to  withdraw  his  hand ;  but  the  hand 
lying  lightly  upon  it  immediately  tightened. 

"Are  you  sure  I  shan't  be  haunted  after  you  are 
gone?"  asked  Diana,  with  eyes  that  searched  his 
face. 

"Not  by  me,"  smiled  David. 

" Of  course  not.     But  by  the  service?" 

"Are  any  special  words  troubling  you?"  he 
asked,  gently. 

"  Goodness,  no ! "  cried  Diana.  "  I  reaHsed  noth- 
ing clearly  excepting  'I  will,'  when  you  said  it. 
I  have  n't  a  ghost  of  a  notion  what  I  promised." 

"Then  if  you  have  n't  a  ghost — "  began  David. 

"Oh,  don't  joke  about  it,"  implored  Diana. 
"I  am  really  in  earnest.  I  was  horribly  afraid; 
and  I  did  not  know  of  what.  I  began  to  think 
I  should  be  obliged  to  ask  you  to  put  off,  and  to 
go  by  a  later  boat." 

"Why?" 

"So  as  to  have  you  here,  to  tell  me  it  had  not 
meant  more  than  we  intended  it  should  mean." 


David  Studies  the  Scenery        249 

Diana  took  ofiE  her  large  hat,  and  threw  it  on 
to  the  seat  opposite.  Then  she  rested  her  head 
against  the  cushion,  close  to  David's. 

"Oh,  this  is  so  restful,"  she  sighed;  "and  I 
am  so  comforted  and  happy!  Do  let  's  stop 
arguing." 

"We  are  not  arguing,"  said  David. 

"Oh,  then  let  's  stop  not  arguing!" 

She  Hfted  his  hand  and  her  muff  together, 
holding  them  closer  to  her. 

"  Let 's  sit  quite  still,  David,  and  realise  that  the 
whole  thing  is  safely  over,  and  we  are  none  the 
worse  for  it;  and  have  got  all  we  wanted  in 
the  world." 

David  said  nothing.  He  had  stopped  "not 
arguing." 

The  train  sped  onward. 

A  sense  of  complete  calm  and  rest  came  over 
the  two  who  sat  silent  in  their  compartment, 
moving  so  rapidly  toward  the  moment  of  in- 
evitable parting.  Diana's  head  was  so  near  to 
David's  that  a  loose  strand  of  her  soft  hair 
blew  against  his  face.  She  let  her  muff  drop, 
but  still  held  his  hand  to  her  breast.  She  closed 
her  eyes,  sitting  so  still  that  David  thought  she 
had  fallen  asleep. 


250        The  Following  of  the  Star 

At  length,  without  stirring,  she  said:  "We shall 
write  to  each  other.  Cousin  David?" 

"  If  you  wish. " 

"Of  course  I  wish.  Will  you  promise  to  tell 
me  exactly  how  you  are?" 

"I  never  speak,  think,  or  write,  about  my  own 
health." 

"Tiresome  boy!  Do  you  call  this  'obeying' 
me?" 

"I  did  not  promise  to  obey  you." 

"Oh,  no;  I  forgot.  How  wickedly  onesided 
the  marriage  service  is!  That  is  one  reason  why 
I  always  declared  I  never  would  marry.  One 
law  for  the  man,  and  another  for  the  woman; 
and  in  a  civilized  country!  We  might  as  well  be 
Hottentots!  And  what  a  slur  on  a  woman  to 
have  to  change  her  name — often  for  the  worse. 
I  knew  a  Miss  Pound  who  married  a  Mr.  Penny. " 

David  did  not  laugh.  He  had  caught  sight 
of  the  distant  ships  on  Southampton  water. 

"Everybody  made  endless  puns  on  the  wedding- 
day,"  continued  Diana.  "I  should  have  been  in 
such  a  rage  before  the  reception  was  over,  had 
I  been  the  bride,  that  no  one  would  have  dared 
come  near  me.  It  got  on  her  nerves,  poor  girl; 
and  when  some  one  asked  her  just  as  they  were 
starting  whether  she  was  going  to  take  care  of 


David  Studies  the  Scenery        251 

the  Penny  and  leave  the  Pounds  to  take  care  of 
themselves,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  drove  away, 
amid  showers  of  rice,  weeping!  I  think  Mr. 
Penny  must  have  felt  rather  'cheap';  don't  you? 
Well,  anyway,  I  have  kept  my  own  name." 

"You  have  taken  mine,"  said  David,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  masts  and  funnels. 

"  How  funny  it  will  seem  to  get  letters  addressed : 
Mrs.  David  Rivers.  If  my  friends  put  D  only, 
it  might  stand  for  'Diana.'  David — "  she 
turned  her  head  suddenly,  without  lifting  it, 
and  her  soft  eyes  looked  full  into  his  dark  ones 
— "David,  what  shall  you  call  me,  when  you 
write?  I  am  no  longer  Miss  Rivers,  and  you  can 
hardly  begin  your  letters:  My  dear  Mrs.  Rivers! 
That  would  be  too  formal,  even  for  you!  At 
last  you  will  have  to  call  me  '  Diana. 

David  smiled.  "Not  necessarily,"  he  said. 
"In  fact,  I  know  how  I  shall  begin  my  letters; 
and  I  shall  not  call  you  ' Diana.'" 

"What  then?"  she  asked;  and  her  lips  were 
very  close  to  his. 

David  sat  up,  and  touched  the  springs  of  the 
window-blind. 

"I  will  tell  you,  as  we  say  good-bye;  not  before. 
Look!  We  are  running  through  Southampton. 
We  shall  be  at  the  quay  in  two  minutes." 


CHAPTER  XX 

WITH  THE  COMPLIMENTS  OF  THE  COMPANY 

r^IANA  followed  David  up  the  gangway  of  the 
big  liner,  and  looked  around  with  intense 
interest  at  the  floating  hotel  he  was  to  inhabit 
during  so  many  days ;  the  vessel  which  was  to  bear 
him  away  to  the  land  from  which  he  never 
intended  to  return. 

Diana  experienced  an  exhilarating  excitement 
as  she  and  David  stepped  on  board,  amid  a  bus- 
tling crowd  of  other  passengers  and  their  friends ; 
the  former  already  beginning  to  eye  one  another 
with  interest;  the  latter,  to  follow  with  wistful 
gaze  those  from  whom  they  would  so  soon  be 
parted. 

Diana  had  left  the  train,  at  the  dock  station, 
with  very  different  sensations  from  those  with 
which  she  had  entered  it  at  Waterloo.  She  now 
felt  so  indescribably  happy  and  at  rest;  so  com- 
pletely reassured  as  to  the  future.     David  had 

been  so  tender  and  understanding,  so  perfect  in 

252 


With  Compliments  of  the  Company  253 

all  he  had  said  and  done,  when  once  she  had  suc- 
ceeded in  making  him  realise  how  much  more 
their  new  relationship  meant  to  her,  than  it  did 
to  him.  He  had  so  patiently  allowed  her  to  hold 
his  hand,  during  the  remainder  of  the  journey. 
She  could  feel  it  still,  where  she  had  pressed  it 
against  her  bosom.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
would  always  feel  it  there,  in  any  time  of  doubt 
or  of  difficulty.  It  must  be  because  of  David's 
essential  goodness,  that  his  touch  possessed  such 
soothing  power.  The  moment  he  had  laid  his 
hand  on  hers,  she  had  thought  of  the  last  verse 
of  his  favourite  hymn. 

Her  car,  sent  down  from  town  the  day  before, 
to  be  in  readiness  to  take  her  home,  awaited  her 
as  near  the  gangway  of  the  steamer  as  the  regu- 
lations of  the  wharf  would  allow.  It  was  com- 
forting to  know  that  there  would  not  be  the  need 
for  a  train  journey,  after  David's  departure. 
It  might  have  seemed  lonely  without  him.  Once 
safely  tucked  into  her  motor,  she  was  at  home, 
no  matter  how  long  the  run  to  Riverscourt  might 
chance  to  be. 

David  caught  sight  of  the  car;  and  she  had  to 
stand,  an  amused  spectator,  while  he  ran  quickly 
down  to  say  good-bye  to  her  footman  and  to 
her    chaufleur.     She    saw    the    wooden    stiflness 


254        The  Following  of  the  Star 

of  the  footman,  and  the  iron  impassivity  of  the 
chatiifeur,  subside  into  humanity,  as  David  shook 
them  each  by  the  hand,  with  a  kindly  word  of 
remembrance  and  farewell.  Both  automata,  for 
the  moment,  became  men.  Diana  could  see  the 
glow  on  their  faces,  as  they  looked  after  David. 
Had  he  tipped  them  each  a  five-pound  note,  they 
would  have  touched  their  hats,  without  a  change 
of  feature.  In  the  warmth  of  this  farewell,  they 
forgot  to  touch  their  hats ;  but  David  had  touched 
their  hearts,  which  was  better;  and  their  love  went 
with  him,  as  he  boarded  the  steamer. 

This  Httle  episode  was  so  characteristic  of 
David.  Diana  thought  it  over,  with  tender 
amusement  in  her  eyes,  as  she  followed  him  up 
the  gangway.  Wherever  he  went  he  won  the 
hearts  of  those  who  served  him.  He  found  out 
their  names,  their  joys  and  sorrows,  their  hopes 
and  histories,  with  astonishing  rapidity.  "I  can- 
not stand  the  plan  of  calling  people  by  their 
occupation,"  he  used  to  say.  "Like  the  crude 
British  matron  in  the  French  hotel,  who  addressed 
the  first  man  she  met  in  a  green  apron,  as 
'Bottines!'" 

So  "Boots,"  "Waiter,"  and  "Ostler,"  became 
"Tom,"  "Dick,"  and  "Harry,"  to  David,  where- 
•vw  he  went ;  and  while  other  people  were  served 


With  Compliments  of  the  Company  255 

by  machines,  for  so  much  a  day,  he  was  hailed 
by  men,  and  waited  on  with  affection.  And  he, 
who  never  forgot  a  face,  also  had  the  knack  of 
never  forgetting  the  name  appertaining  to  that 
face,  nor  the  time  and  circumstance  in  which  he 
had  previously  come  in  contact  with  it. 

Diana  soon  had  evidence  of  this  as  they  boarded 
the  liner,  on  which  David  had  already  travelled. 
On  all  sides,  impassive  faces  suddenly  brightened 
into  smiles  of  welcome;  and  David's  "Hullo, 
Jim!"  or  "Still  on  board,  Harry?"  would  be  met 
with:  "Glad  to  see  you  looking  better,  Mr. 
Rivers";  or  "We  heard  you  was  a-coming,  sir." 
David,  who  had  left  love  behind,  foimd  love  await- 
ing him. 

Opposite  the  purser's  office,  he  hesitated,  and 
turned  to  Diana. 

"Where  would  you  like  to  go?"  he  said.  "We 
have  nearly  an  hour." 

"I  want  to  see  over  the  whole  ship,"  said 
Diana.  "But  first  of  all,  of  course,  your  cabin. " 
David  looked  pleased,  and  led  the  way  dov^-n 
to  a  lower  deck,  and  along  a  narrow  passage,  with 
doors  on  either  side.     At  number  24  he  stopped. 

"Here  we  arc,"  he  said,  cheerfully. 

Diana  entered  a  small  cabin,  already  choked 
with    luggage.     It    contained    three    berths.     On 


256        The  Following  of  the  Star 

two  of  them  were  deposited  rugs,  hand-bags,  and 
men's  cloth  caps,  A  lower  one  was  empty. 
Several  portmanteaux  blocked  the  middle  of  the 
small  room.  David  followed  her  in,  and  looked 
around. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "Where  is  my  baggage? 
Apparently  it  has  not  turned  up.  This  is  my 
bunk,   right   enough." 

"What  a  squash!"  exclaimed  Diana. 

Before  David  could  reply,  a  steward  put  his 
head   in   at   the   door. 

"Well,  Martin,"  said  David,  "I'm  back  in 
my  old  quarters,  you  see.  I  am  glad  you  are 
still  on  duty  down   this  passage." 

The  man  saluted,  and  came  in  with  an  air  of 
importance. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  sir,  I  'm  sure;  and  looking  a 
deal  better  than  when  you  came  home,  sir.  But 
I  'm  not  to  have  the  pleasure  of  waiting  on  you 
this  time,  Mr.  Rivers.  The  purser  gave  orders 
that  I  was  to  hand  you  this,  as  soon  as  you 
arrived." 

He  handed  David  a  letter,  addressed  to  him- 
self. 

David  tore  it  open,  glanced  at  it;  then  turned 
to  Diana,  his  face  aglow  with  surprise  and 
pleasure. 


With  Compliments  of  the  Company  257 

"I  say!"  he  exclaimed.  "They  ask  me  to 
accept  better  accommodation,  'with  the  compH- 
ments  of  the  company.'  Well,  I  've  heard  of 
such  a  thing  happening  to  actors,  public  singers, 
and  authors;  but  this  is  the  first  time  I  have 
known  it  happen  to  a  missionary-!  Where  is 
number  74,  Martin?" 

"On  the  promenade  deck,  sir;  nicely  midship. 
Allow  me  to  show  you." 

Martin  led  the  way.  David,  full  of  excite- 
ment, pleasure,  and  surprise,  followed,  with 
Diana. 

Diana  took  it  very  quietly — this  astonishing 
attention  of  the  company's.  But  her  eyes  shone 
like  stars.  Diana  loved  seeing  people  have 
surprises. 

Number  74  proved  to  be  a  large  airy  state- 
room for  three;  but  only  one  lower  berth  was 
made  up.  David  was  in  sole  possession.  It 
contained  an  easy  chair,  a  wardrobe,  a  writing 
table,  a  movable  electric  lamp,  and  was  so 
spacious,  that  David's  baggage,  standing  in  one 
corner,  looked  quite  lost,  and  took  up  practically 
no  room. 

"A  private  bathroom  is  attached,  sir,"  explained 
Martin,  indicating  a  side  door;  "and  a  mate  of 
mine  is  looking  forward  to  waiting  on  you,  sir. 


258        The  Following  of  the  Star 

I  'm  right  sorry  not  to  have  you  in  24,  but  glad 
to  see  you  in  more  roomy  quarters,  Mr.  Rivers." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  exclaimed  David,  boyishly,  as 
Martin  retired,  closing  the  door.  ''They  've 
actually  given  me  an  eighty  guinea  state-room, 
all  to  myself!  Heaven  send  there  's  no  mistake! 
*  With  the  compliments  of  the  company ! '  Think 
what  that  means!" 

"Will  it  add  very  much  to  your  comfort, 
David?"  asked  Diana,  innocently. 

" Comfort? "  cried  David.  "Why  it 's  a  palace  1 
And  just  think  of  being  to  oneself — and  an  arm- 
chair! Four  electric  lights  in  the  ceiling" — 
David  turned  them  all  on — "and  this  jolly  little 
reading  lamp  to  move  about.  I  shall  be  able 
to  read  in  my  bimk.  And  two  big  windows. 
Oh,  I  say!  I  shall  feel  I  ought  to  invite  two 
other  fellows  in.  It  is  too  sumptuous  for  a 
missionary!" 

"No,  you  mustn't  do  that,  David,"  said 
Diana.  "It  would  be  too  disappointing  to — 
to  the  company.  Look  upon  it  as  an  offering 
of  gold  and  frankincense,  and  do  not  rob  the 
giver  of  the  privilege  of  having  offered  the  gift. 
Promise  me,  David." 

"Of  course  I  promise,"  he  said.  "I  am  too 
absolutely    thankfully  grateful,   to  demur  for  a 


With  Compliments  of  the  Compaii)-   259 

moment,  about  accepting  it.     Only,   it  is  a   bit 
overwhelming." 

"Now  trot  me  all  over  the  ship,"  commanded 
Diana.  "And  then  let  us  return  here,  to  say 
good-bye." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"all  ashore!" 

TT  had  not  taken  long  to  see  over  the  liner. 
*  Diana  had  flown  about,  from  dining-saloon 
to  hurricane-deck,  in  feverish  haste  to  be  back 
in  number  74,  in  order  to  have  a  few  quiet 
moments  alone  with  David. 

They  were  back  there,  now;  and  ten  minutes 
remained  before  the  sounding  of  the  gong,  warn- 
ing friends  to  leave  the  ship. 

"Sit  in  your  easy  chair,  David,"  commanded 
Diana;  "I  shall  like  to  be  able  to  picture  you 
there." 

She  moved  about  the  room,  examining  every- 
thing; giving  httle  touches  here  and  there. 

She  paused  at  the  berth.  "What  a  queer 
little  place  to  sleep  in!"  she  said;  and  laid  her 
hand,  for  a  moment,  on  the  pillow. 

Then  she  poured  water  into  one  of  the  tumblers, 

placed  it  on  the  writing  table,  took  the  Parma 

violets  from  her  breast  and  from  her  muff,  and 

arranged  them  in  the  timibler. 

260 


-All  Ashore!"  261 

"Put  a  little  pinch  of  salt  into  the  water, 
David,  when  you  come  up  from  dinner,  and  they 
will  soon  revive;  and  serve,  for  a  few  days,  to 
remind  you  of  me!  I  am  never  without  violets; 
as  you  may  have  noticed. " 

She  hung  up  his  coat  and  hat.  "I  wish  I 
could  unpack  for  you,"  she  said.  "This  cosy 
little  room  makes  me  feel  quite  domesticated. 
I  never  felt  domesticated,  before;  and  I  am  doubt- 
ful whether  the  feeling  would  last  many  minutes. 
But  how  jolly  it  all  is!  I  believe  I  should  love  a 
voyage  on  a  liner.  Don't  be  surprised  if  I  turn 
up  one  day,  and  call  on  you  in  Ugonduma. " 

"You  must  not  do  that,"  said  David. 

"What  fun  it  would  be  to  arrive  in  the  little 
garden,  where  the  hippopotamuses  dance  their 
morning  cake  walk;  pass  up  the  path,  between 
the  oleanders;  ring  the  bell — I  suppose  there  is  a 
bell? — and  send  in  my  card:  Mrs.  David  Rivers! 
Tableau!  Poor  David!  It  would  be  so  impossible 
to  say:  'Not  at  home'  in  Ugonduma,  especially 
to  Mrs.  David  Rivers!  The  butler — are  there 
butlers? — would  be  bound  to  show  me  in.  It 
would  be  more  astonishing  than  the  hippopotamus ! 
though  less  destructive  to  the  oleanders !  Oh,  why 
am  I  so  flippant! — David,  I  must  see  Martin's 
mate.     I  want  to  talk  to  him  about  taking  proper 


262        The  Following  of  the  Star 

care  of  you.  Will  he  come  if  I  ring  this  bell? 
...  Oh,  all  right.  But  I  am  perfectly  certain 
that  while  you  are  finding  out  how  many  children 
he  has,  and  whether  they  have  all  had  measles, 
he  will  fail  to  notice  your  most  obvious  wants." 

Diana  took  off  her  hat,  and  laid  it  on  the 
writing  table.  Then  she  came  and  knelt  beside 
the  arm  of  David's  chair. 

"David,"  she  said,  "before  I  go,  will  you  give 
me  your  blessing,  as  you  did  on  the  night  when 
you  led  me  to  the  feet  of  the  King?" 

David  stood  up;  but  he  did  not  lay  his  hands 
on  that  bowed  head. 

"Let  us  kneel  together,"  he  said,  "and  together 
let  us  ask,  that  our  mistakes — if  any — may  be 
overruled;  that  our  sins  may  be  forgiven;  that  we 
may  remain  true  to  our  highest  ideals ;  and  that — 
whether  in  life  or  by  death — we  may  glorify  our 
King,  and  be  faithful  followers  of  the  Star." 


The  gong,  following  closely  on  the  final  words 
of  David's  prayer,  crashed  and  clanged  through 
the  ship;  booming  out,  to  all  concerned,  the  knell 
of  inevitable  parting. 

Diana  rose  in  silence,  put  on  her  hat,  took  a 
final  look  round  the  room;  then,  together,  they 


"All  Ashore!"  263 

passed  out,  and  moved  toward  the  gangway, 
down  which  the  friends  of  passengers  were  already 
hurrying,  calling  back,  as  they  went,  final  words 
of  farewell. 

Near  the  gangway  Diana  paused,  and  turned 
to  David. 

"You  are  sure  all  the  dates  and  addresses  you 
have  given  me  are  right?"  she  said. 

David  smiled.  "Quite  sure.  I  would  not  risk 
losing  one  of  your  letters. " 

"You  do  care  that  I  should  write?" 

"I  count  on  it,"  replied  David. 

"And  you  will  write  to  me?" 

"Undoubtedly  I  will." 

"Quite  soon?" 

"I  will  begin  a  letter  to-morrow,  and  tell  you 
whether  Martin's  mate  has  any  children;  and, 
if  so,  whether  they  have  had  the  measles." 

"It  would  be  more  to  the  point  to  tell  me 
whether  he  takes  proper  care  of  you.  David — 
I  wish  you  were  not  going!" 

A  look  leapt  into  David's  eyes  as  of  a  drowning 
man  sinking  for  the  third  and  last  time,  who 
suddenly  sees  a  rope  dangling  almost  within  his 
reach. 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know.     It  seems  so  far.     Arc  j-ou  sure 


264        The  Following  of  the  Star 

you  are  quite  well?     Why   are  you  so  ghastly 
white?" 

"Quite  well,"  smiled  David.  "We  cannot  all 
have  Mrs.  Vane's  fine  colour.  Bid  her  good- 
bye for  me." 

All  who  were  going,  seemed  to  have  gone. 
The  gangway  was  empty.  Passengers  crowded 
to  the  side  of  the  ship,  waving  in  tearful  silence, 
or  gaily  shouting  last  words,  to  friends  lined  up 
on  the  dock. 

"All  ashore!"  shouted  the  sailor  in  charge  of 
the  gangway,  looking  at  Diana. 

She  moved  toward  it,  slowly;  David  at  her  side. 

"Look  here,"  said  David,  speaking  hurriedly; 
"I  should  hate  to  watch  you  standing  alone  in 
that  crowd,  while  we  slowly  pull  out  into  mid- 
stream. Don't  do  it.  Don't  wait  to  see  us  go. 
I  would  so  much  rather  you  went  straight  to  your 
car.  It  is  just  within  sight.  I  shall  see  William 
arrange  the  rug,  and  shut  you  in.  I  shall  be  able 
to  watch  you  actually  safely  on  your  way  to 
Riverscourt;  which  will  be  much  better  than 
gradually  losing  sight  of  you  in  the  midst  of  a 
crowd  of  strange  faces.  You  don't  know  how 
long-drawn-out  these  dock  partings  are.  Will 
you — will  you  do  as  I  ask?" 

"Why  of  course,  I  will,  David,"  she  said.     "It 


"All  Ashore!"  265 

is  the  only  thing  you  have  bidden  me  do  since 
I  promised  to  obey."  Her  lips  trembled.  "I 
hate  saying  good-bye,  David.  And  you  really 
look  ill.  I  wish  I  had  insisted  on  seeing  Martin's 
mate." 

"I'm  all  right,"  said  David,  with  dry  lips. 
"Don't  you  worry." 

"All  ashore!"  remarked  the  sailor,  confiden- 
tially, in  their  direction. 

Diana  placed  one  foot  on  the  gangway;  then 
turned,  and  put  her  hand  into  David's. 

"Good-bye,  David,"  said  Diana. 

His  deep  eyes  looked  hungrily  into  her  face — 
one  last  long  earnest  look. 

Then  he  loosed  her  hand,  and  bent  over  her, 
as  she  began  to  descend  the  gangway. 

"  Good-bye — my  wife" — said  David  Rivers. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


DIANA  WINS 


T^HE  steady  hum,  and  rapid  onward  rush,  of 
•■•  the  motor  were  a  physical  relief  to  Diana, 
after  the  continuous  strain  of  the  happenings 
of  that  eventful  day. 

She  lay  back,  watching  the  flying  houses, 
hedges,  trees,  and  meadows, — and  allowed  every 
nerve  to  relax. 

She  felt  so  thankful  it  was  all  over,  and  that 
she  was  going  home — alone. 

She  felt  very  much  as  she  had  felt  on  her  return 

to    Riverscourt    after    Uncle    Falcon's    funeral. 

It  had  been  such  a  relief  then  to  be  returning 

to    a    perfectly   normal   house,   where  every -day 

life  could  be  resumed  as  usual.     She  had  realised 

with  thankfulness  that  the  blinds  would  be  up 

once  more.     There  would  be  no  hushed  and  silent 

room,  which  must  be  passed  with  reverent  step, 

and  bated  breath,  because  of  the  awesome  un- 

naturalness  of  the  Thing  which  lay  within.     She 

266 


Diana  Wins  267 

had  lost  Uncle  Falcon  on  the  night  of  his  death. 
The  day  of  the  funeral  involved  no  further  loss. 
It  simply  brought  relief  from  a  time  of  unnatural 
strain  and  tension. 

This  shrinking  of  Life  from  Death,  is  the 
strongest  verification  of  the  statement  of  Holy 
Scripture,  that  death  came  by  sin.  The  redeemed 
soul  in  its  pure  radiance  has  gone  on  to  fuller  life. 
"The  body  is  dead,  because  of  sin."  All  that  is 
left  behind  is  "sinful  flesh."  Death  lays  a 
relentless  hand  on  this,  claiming  it  as  his  due. 
Change  and  decay  set  in;  and  even  the  tenderest 
mourning  heart  has  to  welcome  the  coffin  lid, 
grateful  to  kind  Mother  Earth  for  receiving  and 
hiding  that  which — once  so  precious — has  now 
become  a  burden.  Happy  they  who,  standing 
at  the  open  grave,  can  appropriate  and  realise 
the  great  resurrection  message:  "He  is  not  here! 
He  is  risen!" 

Diana  shifted  her  seat  in  the  bounding  car, 
drawing  the  rugs  more  closely  around  her. 

Why  was  her  mind  dwelling  thus  on  death  and 
funerals,   on   the  afternoon  of  her  wedding-day? 

How  wonderful  it  was  that  this  should  actually 
be  her  wedding-day;  and  yet  that  she  should 
still  be  Diana  Rivers  of  Riverscourt,  returning 
alone  to  her  own  domain,  free  and  unfettered. 


268        The  Following  of  the  Star 

How  well  her  plan  had  succeeded ;  and  what  an 
unexpected  touch  of  pure  romance  had  been  added 
thereto,  by  the  fact  that,  after  all,  she  had,  at  the 
last,  done  for  David's  sake,  that  which  he  thought 
he  was  doing  for  hers.  There  was  a  selflessness 
about  the  motives  of  both,  in  this  marriage, 
which  made  it  fragrant  with  the  sublimest  essence 
of  frankincense.  Surely  only  good  and  blessing 
could  ensue. 

Diana  contemplated  with  satisfaction  the  addi- 
tional prestige  and  assurance  given  to  her  position 
in  the  neighbourhood,  by  the  fact  that  she  could 
now  take  her  place  in  society  as  a  married  woman. 

How  much  hateful  gossip  would  be  silenced 
forever;  how  many  insolent  expectations  would 
be  disappointed;  how  many  prudish  criticisms 
and  censorious  remarks  would  have  to  whisper 
themselves  into  shame-faced  silence. 

Diana  looked  forward  with  gleeful  amusement 
to  answering  the  astonished  questions  of  her 
many  friends.  How  perfectly  she  had  vindicated 
the  line  she  had  always  taken  up.  Here  she  was, 
safely  established,  with  all  a  married  woman's 
privileges,   and  none  of  her  odious  obligations. 

The  old  frumps,  whom  it  was  amusing  to  shock, 
would  be  more  shocked  than  ever;  while  the 
younger  spirits,  who  acclaimed  her  already,  would 


Diana  Wins  269 

hail  her  more  loudly  than  ever:  "Diana!  Victress! 
Queen!" 

And  all  this  she  undoubtedly  owed  to  David, 
who  had  made  her  his 

Then  suddenly  she  found  herself  confronted 
by  that  which,  ever  since  the  motor  started,  she 
had  been  fighting  resolutely  into  her  mental 
background;  a  quiet  retrospection  of  the  moment 
of  her  parting  with  David. 

Brought  face  to  face  with  it,  by  the  chance 
mention  of  one  word,  Diana  at  once — giving  up 
fencing  with  side  issues,  past  and  future — turned 
and  faced  this  problem  of  the  present.  Brave 
at  all  times,  she  was  not  a  coward  when  alone. 

She  took  off  her  hat,  rested  her  head  against 
the  soft  springiness  of  the  padded  back  of  her 
motor;  closed  her  eyes,  and  pressed  both  hands 
tightly  against  her  breast. 

David  had  said:  "Good-bye,  my  wife."  It 
was  the  name  he  meant  to  use  in  all  his  letters. 
"Good-bye,  my  wife. " 

It  now  seemed  to  Diana  that  the  happenings 
of  that  whole  day  had  been  moving  toward  that 
culminating  moment,  when  David's  deep  tender 
voice  should  call  her  his  wife;  yet  he  had  not  done 
so,  until  only  a  narrow  shifting  plank,  on  which 


270        The  Following  of  the  Star 

her  feet  already  stood,  lay  between  them,  and  a 
last  earthly  farewell. 

Diana  had  sped  down  the  gangway;  and  when 
her  feet  touched  the  wharf  she  had  fled  to  her  car, 
without  looking  back;  knowing  that  if  she  looked 
back,  and  saw  David's  earnest  eyes  watching  her 
from  the  top,  his  boyish  figure  standing,  slim  and 
erect — she  would  have  turned  and  rushed  back  up 
the  gangway,  caught  his  hand  to  her  breast,  and 
asked  him  to  say  those  words  again.  And,  if 
David  had  called  her  his  wife  again — in  that  tone 
which  made  all  things  sway  and  reel  around  her, 
and  fortune,  home,  friends,  position  seem  as 
nothing  to  the  fact  that  she  was  that  to  him — 
she  could  never  have  let  go  his  hand  again.  They 
must  have  remained  forever  on  the  same  side 
of  the  gangway;  either  she  sailing  with  David 
to  Central  Africa,  or  David  returning  with  her  to 
Riverscourt. 

Yet  she  did  not  want  to  go  to  Afnca;  and  she 
certainly  did  not  want  David  at  Riverscourt! 
Her  whole  plan  of  life  was  to  reign  supreme  in 
her  own  possessions,  mistress  of  her  home,  mis- 
tress of  her  time,  and,  most  important  of  all, 
mistress  of  herself. 

Then  what  was  the  meaning  of  this  strange 
disturbance  in  the  hitherto  unruffled  calm  of  her 


Diana  Wins  271 

inner  being?  What  angel  had  come  down,  on 
lightning  wing,  to  trouble  the  still  waters  of 
her  deepest  self? 

Diana  was  confronted  by  that  most  illusive  of 
psychological  problems,  the  solving  of  the  mys- 
tery of  a  woman's  heart — and  she  possessed  no 
key  thereto.  Her  knowledge  of  the  world,  her 
advanced  ideas,  her  indiscriminate  reading,  had 
not  supplied  her  with  the  golden  key,  which  lies 
in  the  fact  of  the  utter  surrender  of  a  noble  woman, 
to  the  mighty  love,  and  the  infinite  need,  of  a 
strong,  good,  man. 

She  had  chosen  to  go  home  alone.  She  had 
preferred  this  parting  of  the  ways.  Then  why 
was  it  so  desperately  sweet  to  recall  David's 
voice  saying:  "Good-bye,  my  wife"?  Why  did 
nothing  still  this  strange  aching  at  her  breast, 
save  the  remembrance  of  the  touch  of  his  hand, 
as  she  had  pressed  it  against  her? 

She  would  have  stopped  the  motor  and  bidden 
her  man  race  back  to  the  wharf,  on  the  chance 
of  having  a  last  sight  of  David,  standing  on  the 
deck  of  the  liner,  had  he  not  bidden  her  go  at 
once,  without  delay;  so  that,  in  thus  going,  she 
was  rendering  him  the  one  act  of  obedience 
possible,  in  their  brief  wedded  life. 


2']2        The  Following  of  the  Star 

The  wintry  sun  soon  set  behind  the  Hampshire 
hills. 

The  primrose  of  the  sky  faded  into  purple  twilight ; 
twilight  was  quickly  merged  in  chilly  darkness. 

The  car  paused  a  moment  for  the  kindling  of 
its  huge  acetylene  lamps;  then  rushed  onward, 
more  rapidly  than  before. 

Diana  sat  on  in  shadow.  One  touch  of  a  button 
would  have  flooded  the  interior  of  her  motor  with 
light;  but  she  preferred  the  quiet  darkness.  In 
it  she  could  better  hear  her  husband's  voice, 
and  see  the  gleam  of  his  deep  earnest  eyes. 

"Good-bye,  my  wife — my  wife — my  wife — . 
Good-bye,  my  wife!" 


Diana  must  have  fallen  asleep.  The  open- 
ing of  the  door  of  the  motor  roused  her. 

William  had  turned  on  the  lights,  lifted  out  the 
rug,  and  stood  with  it  flung  over  his  arm,  waiting 
for  her  to  step  out. 

Half  dazed,  she  took  up  her  hat  and  smoothed 
her  tumbled  hair. 

She  glanced  at  the  seat  beside  her,  almost 
expecting  to  see  David. 

Then  she  remembered,  and  quickly  stepped 
out  of  the  motor. 


Diana  Wins  273 

The  great  doors  of  Riverscourt  stood  wide. 
A  ruddy  light  from  the  blazing  log  fire  in  the 
hall,  streamed  out  over  the  newly  fallen  snow. 

Old  Rodgers,  deferential,  yet  very  consciously 
paternal,  his  hands  shaking  with  suppressed 
excitement,  stood  just  within. 

The  housekeeper,  expectant  and  alert,  a  bow 
of  white  satin  ribbon  in  a  prominent  position 
in  her  cap,  waited  at  the  foot  of  the  wide  oak 
staircase. 

The  poodle,  his  tufts  tied  up  with  white 
ribbon,  moved  forward  to  greet  his  mistress; 
then  advanced  gravely  into  the  portico,  and 
inspected  the  empty  motor.  The  poodle's  heart 
was  in  the  grave  of  Uncle  Falcon.  Weddings  did 
not  interest  him.  But  the  non-arrival  of  the 
bridegroom — who  had  once,  with  a  lack  of  dis- 
crimination quite  remarkable,  even  in  a  human 
being,  mistaken  him  for  Mrs.  Marmadukc  Vane 
— seemed  a  fact  which  required  verification  and 
investigation.  The  poodle  returned,  smiUng,  from 
his  inspection  of  the  empty  interior  of  the  motor. 
He  had  not  paid  much  attention  to  the  lengthy 
discussions  in  the  servants'  hall.  But  this  much 
he  knew.  Old  Rodgers  had  won  his  bet.  The 
housekeeper  would  have   to  pay.     This  pleased 

the  poodle,  who  resented  the  fact  that  the  house- 
18 


274        The  Following  of  the  Star 

keeper  had  first  trimmed,  her  own  cap,  and  then 
tied  him  up  with  the  remnants; — adding  to  this 
obvious  sUght,  a  callous  disregard  of  his  known 
preference  for  green  or  crimson,  where  the  colour 
of  his  bows  was  concerned. 

As  Diana  entered  the  house,  the  old  clock  in 
the  hall  began  to  strike  six;  distant  Westminster 
chimes  soimded  from  an  upper  landing;  an  im- 
seen  cuckoo  jerked  out  its  note  six  times,  then 
slammed  its  door;  while  the  old  clock,  measured 
and  sonorous,  refusing  to  be  either  hurried  or 
interrupted,  slowly  finished  its  six  strokes. 

Diana  flung  her  cloak  to  Rodgers,  and  ordered 
tea  in  the  library.  Then,  with  a  greeting  to  her 
housekeeper,  she  passed  upstairs  to  her  own 
room. 

Mrs.  David  Rivers  had  come  home. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

UNCLE  FALCON  WINS 

r^IANA  dined  alone  at  the  little  round  table 
'^  in  the  big  dining-room.  She  wore  the  white 
satin  gown  she  had  worn  on  the  evening  of  Christ- 
mas-day, when  David  dined  with  her.  The 
table  decoration  was  liHes  of  the  valley  and  Parma 
violets. 

After  dinner  she  went  to  the  librar}-,  restless 
and  lonely,  yet  glad  to  be  alone;  thankful  she  had 
postponed  to  the  morrow,  the  return  of  Mrs. 
Marmaduke  Vane. 

On  her  writing-table,  in  a  silver  frame,  stood 
the  photograph  of  a  special  chum  of  hers,  a  man 
with  whom  she  frequently  played  tennis  in  sum- 
mer, and  rode  in  winter;  a  good-looking  fellow, 
with  the  appearance  of  an  all  round  sportsman. 
His  gay  friendly  eyes  looked  out  at  her  with  an 
air  of  easy  comradeship,  as  she  paused  for  a 
moment  beside  the  table. 

Diana  was  fond  of  this  portrait  of  Ronald 
275 


276        The  Following  of  the  Star 

Ingram.  It  always  stood  on  her  writing-table. 
But,  this  evening,  she  suddenly  took  it  up,  and 
put  it,  face  downwards,  into  a  drawer.  It  had 
served  to  remind  her  that  she  possessed  no 
photograph  of  David. 

She  moved  over  to  the  fire-place,  tall  and  lovely, 
perfectly  gowned,  surrounded  by  all  the  luxury 
she  loved — yet  indescribably  desolate. 

She  stood,  wrapped  in  thought,  warming  her 
hands  at  the  fire;  then  sank  into  Uncle  Falcon's 
armchair,  in  which  she  had  sat  while  she  and 
David  discussed  their  intended  marriage. 

Did  she  need  a  portrait  of  David? 

Hardly.  He  was  so  vividly  pictured  in  her 
mental  vision. 

She  could  see  him  in  the  pulpit  of  the  little 
church  at  Brambledene — keen,  eager,  inspired; 
full  of  his  subject;  the  dark  eyes  shining  in  his 
thin  worn  face. 

She  could  see  him  in  the  vestry,  seated  on  the 
high  stool;  boyish,  shy;  very  much  taken  aback 
by  her  imexpected  entry. 

She  could  see  him  at  the  piano  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, completely  unconscious  of  his  surroimd- 
ings;  enveloped  in  the  music  he  himself  was 
making. 

She  could  see  him  seated  opposite  to  her  in 


Uncle  Falcon  Wins  277 

the  chair  now  empty,  a  look  of  strange  detach- 
ment upon  his  tired  face,  as  with  infinite  tact 
and  gentleness  he  explained  to  her  why  he  felt 
able,  after  all,  to  accede  to  her  request;  never 
departing  from  his  own  standpoint  in  the  matter; 
yet  making  the  thing  as  easy  for  her  as  possible. 

She  could  see  him  in  the  church  of  St.  Botolph, 
as  he  had  stood  that  morning — was  it  really 
only  that  morning? — awaiting  her.  How  strange 
had  been  the  summons  in  his  eyes,  which  drew 
her  to  his  side.  Ah,  if  there  had  but  been  love 
between  them,  how  wonderful  a  memory  would 
have  been  that  look  in  David's  eyes ! 

She  could  see  him  in  the  railway  train — in 
boyishly  high  spirits,  because  nothing  now  stood 
between  him  and  his  departure  for  his  beloved 
sphere  of  work — seated  opposite  to  her  at  the 
little  table  in  the  dining-car,  rubbing  the  mist 
off  the  windows  with  his  table  napkin,  and  ex- 
claiming over  the  beauties  of  the  Hampshire 
hills  and  villages. 

"Lord  now  lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in 
peace."  Poor  David!  She  had  certainly  inter- 
fered with  his  peace  of  mind  during  the  fortnight 
which  had  preceded  their  strange  wedding. 
Well,  he  had  departed  in  peace,  and  was  un- 
doubtedly gone   "to  be  a   light   to  lighten  the 


278        The  Following  of  the  Star 

Gentiles."  And  what  a  difference  her  money 
would  make  to  the  success  of  his  work. 

And  then — she  could  see  him  as  he  bent  down 
to  her  from  the  top  of  the  gangway,  his  dark  eyes 
gazing  into  hers,  and  said:  "Good-bye,  my  wife." 
Surely,  for  the  moment,  it  had  meant  something 
to  David  to  call  her  his  wife?  She  had  never 
before  seen  quite  such  a  look  in  any  man's  eyes. 
Was  it  fancy,  or  was  there  a  hunger  in  them, 
which  seemed,  to  match  the  ache  at  her  own 
breast?  Sentimental  fancy  on  her  own  part,  no 
doubt;  for  had  not  David  said  of  their  wedding 
service:  "It  meant  no  more  than  we  intended 
it  should  mean"? 

How  odious  and  impossible  a  state  of  things, 
if  she — Diana  Rivers — who  had  proposed  this 
marriage,  as  a  mere  business  transaction — should 
now  be  imagining  into  it  sentiment  which  she  had 
expressly  stipulated  should  never  enter  therein. 
If  David  knew  of  it,  would  she  not  be  forced  to 
bow  her  head  in  shame,  before  his  clear  honest 
eyes? 

No;  certainly  she  needed  no  photograph  of 
David! 

She  glanced  at  the  portrait  of  Uncle  Falcon 
hanging  over  the  mantelpiece;  then  looked  away 


Uncle  Falcon  Wins  279 

at  once.  She  was  rather  afraid  of  Uncle  Falcon 
to-night.  David  had  said  she  was  to  flaunt  her 
victory  in  Uncle  Falcon's  face.  She  had  replied 
that  she  might  have  done  so,  if  he  had  been  going 
to  be  with  her.  David  had  made  no  reply;  but 
she  had  felt  him  shrink  into  himself.  He  had 
been  too  honest  to  express  regret  to  his  bride, 
that  his  engagements  took  him  elsewhere  on  his 
wedding  evening;  and  too  kind,  to  show  relief. 
When  she  had  said:  "David,  I  shall  be  quite 
alone  at  Riverscourt  to-night,"  David  had  re- 
marked: "Oh,  look  at  the  undulating  line  of 
those  distant  hills ! " 

A  little  gleam  of  amusement  illumined  the  sad 
face,  resting  against  the  dark  leather  of  Uncle 
Falcon's  big  chair;  and,  as  the  firelight  played 
upon  it,  dimples  peeped  out.  Had  she  looked 
up,  she  would  have  seen  a  corresponding  twinkle 
in  Uncle  Falcon's  amber  eyes. 

It  really  was  rather  funny.  David  and  his 
table  napkin!  She  knew  she  had  not  behaved 
quite  well  towards  David,  who  was  such  a  very 
faithful  and  very  proper  person.  She  felt  she 
should  always  hate  the  distant  hne  of  undulating 
hills!  If  only  he  had  tried  to  kiss  her,  and  she 
could  have  boxed  his  ears,  she  would  have  enjoyed 
that  journey  better. 


28o        The  Following  of  the  Star 

But,  the  next  moment,  a  rush  of  tears  drowned 
the  gleam  of  fun  in  those  sweet  eyes.  She  had 
remembered  David's  face,  as  he  said:  "Good- 
bye, my  wife."  It  seemed  sacrilege  even  to 
think  of  boxing  his  ears!  How  ill  he  had  looked, 
during  those  final  minutes  on  the  boat.  It  made 
it  so  terribly  easy  to  picture  David's  face  as  it 
would  look  when  he  lay  dying — dead. 

Diana's  tears  fell  silently.  She,  who  scarcely 
ever  wept,  now  found  herself  weeping  without 
restraint,  in  a  vague,  helpless  sort  of  way;  and 
about  nothing — that  was  the  foolish  part  of  it — 
she  was  crying  about  absolutely  nothing! 

* '  This  will  never  do ! "  said  Diana.  '  *  I  am  being 
as  silly  as  an  ordinary  married  woman.  I  must 
find  something  sensible  to  think  about." 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  stretched  her  beauti- 
ful arms  over  her  head;  then  walked  across  to  a 
table  to  look  for  a  book.  Her  eye  fell  upon  a 
concordance,  lying  where  she  had  left  it  on  that 
evening  of  indecision  and  perplexity. 

Suddenly  she  remembered  words  of  David's 
in  his  sermon  on  Christmas-eve.  They  came 
back  to  her  as  clearly  as  if  they  had  that  moment 
been  spoken. 

"Myrrh,  in  the  Bible,"  David  had  said,  "stands 
for  other   things   besides   death.     We   must  not 


Uncle  Falcon  Wins  281 

pause  to  do  so  now;  but,  sometime,  at  your  lei- 
sure, look  out  each  mention  of  myrrh.  You 
will  find  it  stands  for  love — love,  of  the  sweetest, 
tendercst  kind;  love  so  complete,  that  it  must 
bring  with  it  self-abnegation,  and  a  mingling  of 
pain  with  its  bliss." 

Yes,  David  had  said  this.  How  suitable  that 
to-night — of  all  nights — she  should  do  as  he  had 
wished. 

But,  first,  she  went  to  the  window,  drew  aside 
the  curtains,  and  looked  out. 

Snow  had  ceased  to  fall.  The  sky  was  clear  and 
cloudless.  There  was  no  moon;  but,  low  on  the 
horizon,  shone  one  brilliant  star. 

It  seemed  to  Diana,  that  at  that  very  moment, 
from  somewhere  out  on  the  ocean,  David's  eyes 
were  also  on  that  star.  It  brought  him  very 
near.     It  made  his  last  prayer  very  real. 

She  leaned  her  head  against  the  window  frame, 
and  watched  it  silently. 

"Whether  in  life  or  in  death,"  said  David's 
quiet  voice,  "may  we  glorify  our  King,  and  be 
faithful  followers  of  the  star." 

Then  she  drew  the  curtain  close  once  more, 
found  a  Bible,  took  up  the  concordance,  and 
went  back  to  Uncle  Falcon's  chair  to  do  as  David 
had  suggested. 


282        The  Following  of  the  Star 

The  first  reference  to  which  she  turned,  chanced 
to  be  the  thirteenth  verse  of  the  first  chapter 
of  the  Book  of  Canticles — divinest  love-poem 
ever  written. 

Bending  over  it,  in  the  firelight,  Diana  read 
the  opening  words. 

"A  bundle  of  myrrh  is  my  well-beloved  unto 
me " 

Then,  suddenly,  her  eyes  dilated.  She  pressed 
her  hands  against  her  breast. 

Then  she  bent  over,  and  finished  the  verse; 
reading  each  word  slowly,  to  the  very  last. 


"David!   David!   David!" 

A  bundle  of  myrrh  is  my  well-belovM  unto  me! 
Oh,  David,  speeding  each  moment  farther  and 
farther  away,  on  life's  relentless  ocean;  hastening 
to  that  distant  land  "that  is  very  far  off,"  from 
which  there  is  no  return ! 

She  lay  back  in  the  chair;  opened  her  arms 
wide;  then  closed  them — on  nothingness. 

"David!     David!" 
She  understood,  now. 

This  pain  at  her  breast,  this  ache  of  her  heart, 
would  never  be  stilled,  until  David's  dear  head 


Uncle  Falcon  Wins  283 

rested  here  where  his  hand  had  been  pressed.  And 
David  had  gone  from  her — forever. 

"Good-bye,  my  wife.  ...  It  meant  no  more 
than  we  intended  it  should  mean.  .  .  .  Good- 
bye, my  wife." 

She  held  her  hands  clasped  to  her  bosom.  She 
looked,  wide-eyed,  at  the  empty  chair,  opposite. 

"David,"  she  whispered,  "David,  come  back 
tome!" 

It  seemed,  to  her,  that  David  must  hear,  and 
must  return.  This  agony  of  awful  lonehness 
could  not  endure.  .  .  .  David!  .  .  .  David! 
.  .  .     David!  .  .  . 

At  last  she  rose,  leaned  her  arms  upon  the 
marble  mantel-piece,  and  looked  up  into  the 
searching  eyes  of  the  portrait. 

"Uncle  Falcon,"  she  whispered  bravely ;  "Uncle 
Falcon — you  have  won.'" 

The  eyes  of  the  old  man  who  had  loved  her, 
seemed  to  look  down  sadly,  sorrowfully,  into 
hers.  She  had  won;  and  he  had  won;  but  there 
was  no  triumph  in  either  victory. 

The  only  undisputed  victor,  in  that  hour,  was 
Love  who  is  lord  of  all;  and  even  LfOve  fled,  with 
drooping  wings,  from  a  desolation  which  had  been 
brought  about  by  sacrilege  at  the  altar. 


284        The  Following  of  the  Star 

Diana  laid  her  golden  head  upon  her  arms. 
Its  coronet  of  pride  fell  from  it.  She  was  shaken 
from  head  to  foot  by  desperate  weeping. 

David  had  said:  "A  love  so  complete  that  it 
must  bring  with  it  self-abnegation,  and  a  ming- 
ling of  pain  with  its  bliss."  She  had  had  one 
glimpse  of  what  the  bliss  might  have  been.  She 
was  tasting  the  pain  to  the  full. 

Self  stepped  forever  off  the  throne  of  her 
woman's  heart;  and  Love,  undisputed,  held  full 
sway. 

She  turned  from  the  fire-place,  sank  upon  the 
floor  beside  the  chair  in  which  David  had  sat; 
then  laid  her  head  upon  it,  clasping  her  arms 
around  its  unresponsive  emptiness. 

"David!  .  .  .     David!  .  .  .     David!" 

But  the  distant  liner  was  ploughing  steadily 
through  the  dark  waters.  Each  moment  took 
him  farther  from  her;  nearer  to  the  land  from 
which  there  is  no  return. 

''Good-bye,  my  wife.** 

After  a  while,  Diana  ceased  to  call  him. 

She  lay  very  still.  No  sound  broke  the  silence 
of  the  room,  save  the  low  shuddering  sobs  of  a 
breaking  heart. 


Uncle  Falcon  Wins  285 

But  the  star  in  the  sky  still  shone,  though  heavy- 
curtains  veiled  it. 

And  David,  pacing  the  hurricane  deck,  where 
were  no  curtains,  lifted  his  eyes  to  its  clear  shin- 
ing; and,  in  the  midst  of  his  own  desperate  pain, 
saw  in  it  an  emblem  of  hope,  a  promise  of  guid- 
ance, a  beacon  Hght  in  this  vast  desert  of  utter 
desolation. 

And  midnight  brought  merciful  sleep  to  both. 

Here  erideth  gold. 


FRANKINCENSE 


287 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  HIDDEN  LEAVEN 

/^"^HRISTMAS-EVE    had    come   round   again. 

^-^  The  successive  changes  of  each  season  had 
passed  over  Riverscourt ; — the  awakening  of  early- 
spring,  when  earth  threw  off  her  pall  of  snow, 
and  budding  life  won  its  annual  triumph  over  the 
darkening  chill  of  winter ; — the  bloom  and  blossom 
of  summer,  when  all  nature  lifted  up  its  voice  and 
sang  to  the  sunshine,  amid  fragrance  of  flowers  and 
shade  of  soft  green  foliage; — the  rich  fulfilment  of 
autumn,  when  blossom  ripened  into  fruit,  and  trees 
turned  to  crimson  and  gold,  emblem  of  the  royal 
wealth  of  yielded  harvest. 

All  this  had  come, and  gone;  and  now, once  more, 
earth  slept  'neath  leaden  skies;  and  bare  branches 
forked  out,  hopeless,  over  the  sodden  turf. 

"  Is  this  the  end? "  rasped  the  dead  leaves,  as  the 

north  wind  swept  them  in  unresisting  herds  down 

the  avenue  of  beeches.     "The  end!     The  end!" 

wailed  the  north  wind,     "  The  grass  withcreth,  the 

19  2S9 


290        The  Following  of  the  Star 

flower  jadeth — "  Then  Hope,  born  of  Faith  and 
Experience,  cried:  ^' But  the  word  of  our  God  shall 
stand  forever!  While  the  earth  remaineth,  seedtime 
and  harvest,  and  cold  and  heat,  and  summer  and  win- 
ter, and  day  and  night  shall  not  cease.  This  is  not 
death,  but  sleep.  When  spring  sounds  the  reveille, 
life  will  stir  and  move  again  beneath  the  sod;  all 
nature  will  respond,  and  there  shall  come  once  more 
the  great  awakening ;  the  dismal  sentries  of  dark- 
ness and  of  death  may  cease  to  challenge;  the 
troops  of  light  and  life  march  on  their  way.  Again 
the  victory  will  be  with  spring." 

During  the  year,  now  nearly  over,  Diana's  inner 
life  had  reflected  each  of  these  transitions,  going 
on  around  her,  in  her  own  park  and  gardens. 

In  the  lonely  despairing  weeks  following  her 
wedding-day,  her  heart  seemed  numb  and  dead; 
her  empty  arms  stiffened  like  leafless  branches. 
Her  love  had  awakened,  only  to  find  itself  en- 
tombed. 

But,  with  the  arrival  of  David's  first  letter,  there 
burst  upon  her  winter  the  glad  promise  of  spring. 

"  My  dear  wife, "  wrote  David;  and,  as  she  read 
the  words,  strong  possessive  arms  seemed  to  enfold 
her.  Though  distance  divided,  she  was,  unalter- 
ably, that  to  him:  "My  dear  wife." 


The  Hidden  Leaven  291 

The  letter  proceeded,  in  calm  friendliness,  to  give 
her  a  full  account  of  his  voyage ;  nothing  more ;  yet 
with  an  intimacy  of  detail,  an  assurance  of  her 
interest,  which  came  as  balm  to  Diana's  sore 
heart.  And  the  letter  ended:  "Yours  ever, 
David  Rivers." 

Then  followed  a  sweet  summer-time  of  wonder- 
ful promise.  David's  letters  reached  her  by  every 
mail.  They  always  began :  "  My  dear  wife  " ;  they 
always  ended:  "Yoiu-s  ever,  David  Rivers";  they 
held  no  word  of  anything  closer  or  more  intimate 
in  their  tic,  than  was  in  the  bond;  yet,  as  Diana 
shared  his  hopes  and  expectations,  his  difficulties, 
and  their  surmounting;  as  she  followed  with  him 
along  each  step  in  the  new  development  of  his 
work,  the  materialising  of  his  ideas,  the  fulfilment 
of  his  plans,  by  means  of  her  gift  of  gold — it  seemed 
to  her  that  all  this  was  but  the  promise  of 
spring;  that  a  glad  summer  must  soon  come,  when 
David's  heart  should  awaken  to  a  need — not 
only  of  her  sympathy  and  of  her  help,  but  of  her- 
self; that,  at  no  distant  date,  the  mail  would  bring 
a  letter,  saying:  "]\Iy  wife,  I  want  you.  Come 
tome!" 

She  forgot  that,  owing  to  their  unnatural  mar- 
riage, she  was,  of  all  women,  the  one  whom  David 
could  not,  however  much  he  might  desire  to  do  so, 


292        The  Following  of  the  Star 

attempt  to  woo  and  win.  She  realised  her  side  of 
the  question;  yet,  womanHke,  forgot  his.  No  hint 
of  her  need  of  him  was  allowed  to  creep  into  her 
letters,  even  between  the  lines;  yet  she  eagerly 
searched  David's  for  some  indication  that  his 
heart  was  beginning  to  turn  toward  her,  in  more 
than  friendliness.  It  seemed  to  her,  that  her 
growing  love  for  him  must  awaken  in  him  a  cor- 
responding love  for  her. 

But  David's  letters  continued  calm  and  friendly; 
and,  as  his  work  became  more  absorbing,  they  held 
even  less  of  personal  detail,  or  of  intimate  allusion 
to  her  life  at  home. 

Yet  this  summer-time  was  one  of  growth  and 
bloom  to  Diana,  for  there  blossomed  up,  between 
him  and  herself,  by  means  of  constant  letters,  a 
wonderful  friendship. 

Their  position,  the  one  toward  the  other,  was  so 
unique ;  and,  having  no  one  else  with  whom  to  share 
their  inner  lives  and  closest  interests,  they  turned 
to  one  another  with  a  completeness  which  made  a 
diary  of  their  correspondence. 

The  one  subject  upon  which  neither  dared  to  be 
frank,  was  their  love  the  one  for  the  other.  Each 
was  the  very  soul  of  honour,  and  each  felt  bound 
by  their  mutual  compact  to  hide  from  the  other  how 
infinitely  more  their  marriage  had  meant  than  they 


The  Hidden  Leaven  293 

had  ever  dreamed  it  could,  or  intended  it  should, 
mean. 

With  the  awakening  of  her  love  for  David,  Diana 
passed  through  agonies  of  shame  at  the  recollection 
of  the  crude,  calm  way  in  which  she  had  asked  him 
to  marry  her. 

During  the  long  days  before  the  arrival  of  his 
first  letter,  she  used,  almost  every  evening,  to 
stand  as  she  had  stood  that  afternoon,  facing 
the  empty  chair  which  had  then  held  David;  and, 
whispering  the  fateful  words  recall  his  face  of  pro- 
test; his  look  of  horrified  dismay.  This  was  the 
penance  she  imposed  on  her  proud  spirit;  and 
she  would  creep  upstairs  afterwards,  her  fair  head 
bowed  in  shame;  a  beautiful  Godiva,  who  had 
ridden  forth,  not  to  save  her  townspeople,  but 
to  gain  her  own  desired  ends. 

Poor  David !  How  he  had  leapt  up  in  instant 
protest :  "  I  cannot  do  this  thing ! ' '  Her  suggestion 
to  him  had  not  even  partaken  of  the  nature  of  a 
royal  proposal  of  marriage,  when  the  young  man 
knows  that  the  choice  has  fallen  upon  himself,  and 
stands  waiting,  with  ready  penknife,  to  slit  the 
breast  of  his  tightly  buttoned  tunic,  and  insert 
therein  the  fair  white  rose  of  a  maiden's  proffered 
love.     David's  uniform  of  amazed  manhood,  had 


294        The  Following  of  the  Star 

provided  no  improvised  buttonhole  for  Diana's 
undesired  flower.  He  had  stood  before  her,  dis- 
mayed but  implacable :  "I  cannot  do  this  thing ! ' * 
Poor  David,  in  his  shabby  jacket,  with  his  thin, 
worn  face,  and  eyes  ablaze.  Diana  cowered  before 
the  Peeping  Tom  of  her  own  vivid  remembrance. 

But,  with  the  reading  of  his  first  letter,  the  words 
"my  dear  wife"  stole  around  her  as  protective  arms, 
shielding  her  from  shame,  and  comforting  her  in 
her  loneliness,  with  the  fact  of  how  much  she  had, 
after  all,  been  able  to  give  him.  Yet  never — never 
— must  word  from  her  reveal  to  David  that  she  had 
given  him,  unasked,  the  whole  love  of  her  woman's 
heart.  Should  he  come  to  need  it,  and  ask  for  it, 
he  would  find  it  had  all  along  been  his. 

At  first  Diana's  life  had  moved  along  its  accus- 
tomed lines ;  with  David,  and  all  he  was  to  her,  as  a 
sweet  central  secret,  hidden  deeply  in  her  heart  of 
hearts. 

But,  before  long,  she  began  to  experience  that 
which  has  been  beautifully  described  as  "the  ex- 
pulsive power  of  a  new  affection."  David — like 
the  Httle  leaven,  which  a  woman  took  and  hid  in 
three  measures  of  meal — David,  working  outward, 
from  that  inner  shrine,  leavened  her  whole  life. 

He  had  not  asked  her  to  give  up  hunting  or 
dancing  or  any  of  the  gaiety  in  which  she  deHghted. 


The  Hidden  Leaven  295 

Yet  the  more  she  Hved  in  touch  with  his  strenuous 
hfe  of  earnest  self-sacrifice,  the  less  these  things 
attracted  her. 

Diana's  friends  never  found  her  dull;  but  they 
gradually  grew  to  reahse  that  her  horizon  had 
widened  immeasurably  beyond  their  own;  that 
the  focusing  points  in  her  field  of  vision  were  things 
totally  unseen  by  themselves;  that,  in  some  subtle 
way,  she  had  developed  and  grown  beyond  their 
comprehension.  They  loved  her  still,  but  they 
left  her.  Diana  Rivers,  of  Riverscourt,  ceased  to 
be  the  centre  of  an  admiring  crowd. 

They  left  her ;  but  she  was  not  conscious  of  their 
going. 

She  stood  alone ;  yet  did  not  know  that  she  was 
lonely. 

The  only  leaving  of  which  she  was  aware,  was 
that  David  had  left  her  on  their  wedding-da}'; 
the  only  loneliness,  that  David  never  intended  to 
return. 

Truly,  the  little  leaven  had  leavened  the  whole 
lump. 

The  glitter  and  the  glamour  of  the  kingdoms  of 
this  world,  had  passed  away.  The  kingdom  of 
heaven  held  sway  in  Diana's  heart. 

But  the  King  of  that  kingdom,  at  this  period  of 
Diana's  life,  was  David. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  PROPERTY  OF  THE  CROWN 

nPHE  summer  passed  in  perpetual  expectation; 
■■■  ■  which,  when  autumn  arrived,  seemed  ripe  for 
fulfilment. 

Diana's  mind  was  so  absorbed  by  her  love  for 
David,  that  she  scarcely  realised  how  completely 
she  kept  it  out  of  her  letters ;  or  that  his  reticence 
might  merely  have  been  a  reflection  of  her  own. 
Also  she  every  now  and  then  relieved  her  feelings 
by  writing  him  a  complete  outpouring.  This,  often 
written  side  by  side  with  her  letter  for  the  mail,  she 
would  seal  up  in  an  envelope  addressed  to  David, 
and  place  in  a  compartment  of  the  sandal-wood 
box  in  which  she  kept  all  his  letters,  with  a  vague 
idea  that  some  day  she  herself  would  be  able  to 
place  in  his  hands  these  unposted  missives. 

One  afternoon,  just  as  she  was  closing  both  en- 
velopes, callers  arrived.  They  stayed  to  tea ;  leav- 
ing, only  a  few  minutes  before  Rodgers  came  in 
with  the  post-bag. 

Diana  stamped  her  letter,  and  placed  it  in  the 

2q6 


The  Property  of  the  Crown       297 

bag.  Then  spent  half  an  hour  looking  through 
some  of  David's  before  locking  them  up  with  the 
one  she  had  just  written.  This  was  especially  full 
of  tenderness  and  longing;  and,  though  the  quick 
blood  mantled  her  cheek  at  the  recollection  of 
words  it  contained,  her  heart  felt  hghtened  and 
relieved. 

"How  foolish  I  am,"  she  thought;  "no  wiser 
than  the  ordinary  married  women,  whom  I  used  to 
despise." 

She  took  up  a  little  pile  of  these  letters,  lying 
safely  in  their  own  compartment  in  the  sandal- 
wood casket. 

"They  all  belong  to  David,"  she  whispered. 
"Some  day — he  will  see  them." 

Then  something  about  the  address  of  the  one 
she  had  just  placed  with  the  rest,  caught  her  eye. 
The  writing  was  hurried,  and  more  like  that  which 
she  had  rapidly  finished  for  posting,  while  Rodgers 
waited. 

She  tore  it  open. 

Aly  dear  David. 

She  glanced  at  the  end.  Then  she  sprang  up 
and  pealed  the  bell. 

Yours  affect iojiatcly,  Diana  Rivers,  was  in  her 
hand.  Your  icifc,  icho  loves  you  and  longs  for  you, 
had  gone  to  David ! 


298        The  Following  of  the  Star 

Rodgers  reported,  in  an  unmoved  undertone, 
that  the  man  with  the  post-bag  had  started  for 
Riversmead,  on  his  bicycle,  twenty  minutes  ago. 

" Order  the  motor, "  commanded  Diana.  "Tell 
Knox  to  come  round  as  quickly  as  possible.  I 
must  overtake  the  post-bag. " 

She  placed  her  letter  in  a  fresh  envelope,  rapidly 
addressed,  sealed,  and  stamped  it;  flew  up  for  a 
hat  and  coat,  and  was  downstairs,  ready  to  start, 
within  five  minutes  of  her  discovery  of  the  mistake. 

She  paced  the  hall  Hke  a  caged  lion.  Every 
word  she  had  written  stood  out  in  letters  of  fire. 
Oh  folly,  folly,  to  have  let  the  two  letters  lie  side 
by  side! 

"It  meant  no  more  than  we  intended  it  should 
mean"  ....  Your  wife,  who  loves  you  and  longs 
for  you. 

At  last  the  motor  hummed  up  to  the  portico. 
Diana  was  in  it  before  it  drew  up. 

"Overtake  Jarvis, "  she  said,  and  sat  back,  pal- 
pitating. 

They  flew  down  the  avenue,  and  along  the  high 
road.  But  Jarvis  had  had  nearly  half-an-hour's 
start,  and  was  a  dependable  man.  A  little  way 
from  the  lodge  gates  they  met  him  returning. 

"On!     To  the  post-office!"  cried  Diana. 

It  so  happened  that  a  smart,  new  post-office  had 


The  Property  of  the  Crown        299 

lately  been  opened,  in  the  centre  of  the  Uttle  town 
— a  stone  building,  very  official  in  appearance. 
Its  workings  were  carried  out  with  great  precision 
and  authority.  The  old  postmaster  was  living 
up  to  the  grandeur  of  his  new  building. 

Diana  walked  in,  letting  the  door  swing  behind 
her. 

"Has  the  Riverscoiu-t  bag  been  emptied  yet?" 
she  enquired.     "  If  not,  bring  it  to  me,  unopened. " 

A  clerk  went  into  the  sorting-room,  and  returned 
in  a  few  minutes  with  the  letter-bag,  open  and 
empty. 

"Has  the  mail  gone?"  demanded  Diana. 

No,  the  mail  had  not  gone.  It  was  due  out,  in  a 
few  minutes. 

The  letters  were  being  sorted.  She  could  hear 
the  double  bang-bang  of  the  postmarking. 

"  I  wish  to  see  the  Postmaster, "  said  Diana. 

The  Postmaster  was  summoned,  and,  hurrying 
out,  bowed  low  before  the  mistress  of  Riverscourt. 
She  did  not  often  come,  in  person,  even  to  the  iktu) 
post-office. 

Diana  knew  she  had  a  difficult  matter  to  broach, 
and  realised  that  she  must  not  be  imperious. 

D.  R.  might  reign  at  Riverscourt;  but  E.  R.  w^as 
sovereign  of  the  realm !  Her  love-letter  to  David 
had  now  become  the  property  of  the  King ;  and  this 


300        The  Following  of  the  Star 

courteous  little  person,  bowing  before  her,  was, 
ver}'  consciously,  the  King's  official  in  Riversmead. 
Was  not  E.  R.  carved  with  many  flourishes  on  a 
stone  escutcheon  on  the  face  of  the  new  post-office? 

Diana,  curbing  her  impatience,  smiled  graciously 
at  the  Postmaster. 

"May  I  have  a  few  words  with  you,  in  your 
private  room,  Mr.  Holdsworth?"  she  said. 

Full  of  pleased  importance,  the  little  great  man 
ushered  her  into  his  private  sanctum,  adjoining 
the  sorting-room. 

A  bright  fire  burned  in  the  grate.  The  room  was 
new,  and  not  yet  papered ;  and  the  autumn  evening 
was  chill.  Diana  walked  up  to  the  fire,  drew  off 
her  gloves,  and,  stooping,  warmed  her  hands  at  the 
blaze. 

Then  she  turned  and  faced  the  Postmaster. 

"  Mr.  Holdsworth,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  great 
kindness.  An  hour  ago,  I  put  by  mistake  into  our 
post-bag,  a  letter  addressed  to  my  husband,  which 
it  is  most  important  that  he  should  not  receive. 
It  was  a  mistake.  Here  is  the  letter  I  intended  for 
him.  I  want  you  to  find  the  other  in  the  sorting- 
room,  and  to  get  it  back  for  me. " 

The  little  man  stiffened  visibly.  E.  R.  seemed 
writ  large  all  over  him. 

"That  is  impossible,  madam,"  he  said,  "abso- 


The  Property  of  the  Crown         301 

lutely  impossible.  Once  posted,  a  letter  becomes 
the  property  of  the  Crown  until  it  reaches  the 
hands  of  the  addressee.  I,  as  a  servant  of  the  King, 
have  to  see  that  all  Crown-property  is  safeguarded. 
I  could  not,  under  any  circumstances  whatever, 
return  a  letter  once  posted. " 

"But  it  is  my  own  letter!"  exclaimed  Diana. 
"An  hour  ago  it  lay  on  my  writing-table,  side 
by  side  with  this  one,  for  which  it  was  mistaken. 
It  is  my  own  property;  and  I  must  have  it 
back." 

"It  ceased  to  be  your  property,  Mrs.  Rivers, 
when  it  was  taken  from  your  private  post-bag  and 
placed  among  other  posted  letters.  Neither  you 
nor  I  have  any  further  control  over  it. " 

Diana's  imperious  temper  flashed  from  her  e3'es, 
and  flamed  into  her  cheeks.  Her  first  impulse 
was  to  fling  this  little  person  aside,  stride  into  the 
sorting-room,  and  retrieve  her  letter  to  David,  at 
any  cost. 

Then  a  wiser  mood  prevailed.  She  came  a  step 
nearer,  looking  down  uj^on  him  with  soft  pleading 
eyes. 

"  Mr.  Holdsworth, "  she  said,  "you  are  an  official 
of  the  Crown,  and  a  faithful  one;  but,  even  before 
that,  you  are  a  man.  Listen !  I  shall  suffer  days  and 
nights  of  unspeakable  anguish  of  mind,  if  that  letter 


302        The  Following  of  the  Star 

goes.  My  husband  is  out  in  the  far  wilds  of  Central 
Africa.  That  letter  would  mean  endless  worry  and 
perplexity  to  him,  in  the  midst  of  his  important 
work;  and  also  the  wrecking  of  a  thing  very  dear- to 
us  both.  So  strongly  do  I  feel  about  it,  that,  if  it 
goes,  I  shall  sail  on  the  same  boat,  travelling  night 
and  day,  by  the  fastest  route,  in  order  to  intercept 
it  at  his  very  gate!  See  how  I  trust  you,  when  I 
tell  you  all  this!" 

The  Postmaster  hesitated.  "You  could  cable 
him  to  return  it  to  you  unopened, "  he  said. 

"I  could,"  replied  Diana;  "but  that  would  in- 
volve a  mystery  and  a  worry;  and  I  would  give 
my  life  to  shield  him  from  worry.  See!  Here  is 
the  letter  intended  for  this  mail,  ready  stamped 
and  sealed.  All  I  ask  you  to  do,  is  to  substitute 
this  one  for  the  other." 

She  held  out  the  letter,  and  looked  at  the  Post- 
master. 

His  eyes  fell  before  the  pleading  in  hers. 

He  was  a  Crown  official  and  an  Englishman. 
Had  she  offered  him  a  hundred  pounds  to  do  this 
thing,  he  would  have  shown  her  out  of  his  office 
with  scant  ceremony.  But  the  haughty  young 
lady  of  Riverscourt,  in  all  her  fearless  beauty,  had 
looked  at  him  with  tears  in  her  grey  eyes,  and  had 
said:  "See  how  I  trust  you." 


The  Property  of  the  Crown        303 

He  hesitated:  his  hand  moved  in  the  direction 
of  the  letter,  his  fingers  working  nervously. 

Diana  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  bending 
towards  him. 

"Please,"  she  said. 

He  took  the  letter. 

"I  will  see  whether  the  other  is  already  gone," 
he  mumbled,  and  disappeared  through  a  side  door, 
into  the  sorting-room. 

In  a  few  moments  he  returned,  still  holding 
Diana's  letter.  His  plump  face  was  rather  pale, 
and  his  hand  shook.  He  laid  Diana's  letter  on 
the  table  between  them. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Rivers,"  he  said.  "I 
cannot  possibly  give  you  back  a  letter  once  posted. 
Were  I  known  to  have  done  such  a  thing,  I  shoiild 
at  once  be  dismissed." 

Diana  paled,  and  stood  very  still,  considering 
her  next  move. 

"I  cannot  give  you  back  the  letter,"  said 
the  Postmaster.  His  eyes  met  hers;  then 
dropped  to  the  letter  lying  on  the  table  between 
them. 

Then  the  stars  in  their  courses  fought  against 
David,  for  suddenly  Diana  understood.  This  was 
the  letter  she  wanted,  placed  within  her  reach. 

With  a  rapid  movement  she  pounced  upon  it, 


304        The  Following  of  the  Star 

verified  it  at  a  glance ;  tore  it  to  fragments,  and 
flung  them  into  the  flames. 

' '  There ! ' '  she  said.  ' '  You  did  not  give  it  to  me, 
and  I  have  not  taken  it.  It  is  simply  gone — as  if  it 
had  never  been  either  written  or  posted. " 

Then  she  turned  to  the  little  fat  man  near  the 
door,  and  impulsively  held  out  her  hand.  "God 
bless  you,  my  friend!"  she  said.  "I  shall  never 
forget  what  you  have  done  for  me  this  day." 

"We  had  best  both  forget  it,"  whispered  the 
Postmaster,  thickly.  "  If  a  word  of  it  gets  about, 
I  lose  my  place." 

"Never  you  fear!"  cried  Diana,  her  buoyancy 
returning,  in  her  relief  and  thankfulness.  "I 
trusted  you,  and  you  may  safely  trust  me." 

"Hush,"  cautioned  Mr.  Holdsworth,  as  he 
opened  the  door;  "we  had  best  both  forget." 
Then,  as  she  passed  out:  "Your  letter  was  just 
in  time,  m'am,"  he  remarked  aloud,  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  clerks  in  the  office.  "I  placed  it  in  the 
bag  myself." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Diana.  "It  would  have 
troubled  me  greatly  to  have  missed  this  evening's 
mail.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Holdsworth." 

Leaning  back  in  the  motor,  on  her  homeward 
way  her  heart  felt  sick  at  the  suspense  through 
which  she  had  passed. 


The  Property  of  the  Crown       305 

A  reaction  set  in.  The  chill  of  a  second  winter 
nipped  the  bloom  of  her  summer,  and  the  rich 
fulfilment  promised  by  her  golden  autumn.  The 
fact  that  it  seemed  such  an  impossible  horror  that 
one  of  her  tender  love-letters  should  really  reach 
David,  proved  to  her  the  fallacy  of  the  consolation 
she  had  found  in  writing  them. 

It  placed  him  far  away — and  far  away  forever. 
He  would  never  know;  he  would  never  care;  he 
would  never  come.  ...  //  meajit  no  more  than 
we  intetided  it  should  mean.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  my 
wife. 

Tears  stole  from  beneath  Diana's  closed  lids, 
and  rolled  silently  down  her  cheeks. 

Your  wife,  who  loves  you  and  lojigs  for  you  !  But 
David  would  never  know.  It  was  so  true — oh,  so 
true!     But  David  would  never  know. 

And,  away  in  the  African  swamps,  at  that  very 
hour,  David,  Ij-ing  in  his  wooden  hut,  recovering 
from  one  of  the  short  bouts  of  fever,  now  becoming 
so  frequent,  leaned  upon  his  elbow  and  drew  from 
beneath  his  pillow  Diana's  last  letter,  which  he  had 
been  too  ill  to  read  when  the  mail  came  in ;  scanned 
it  through  eagerly,  seeking  for  some  word  which 
might    breathe    more    than    mere    friendliness; 


3o6        The  Following  of  the  Star 

pressed  his  hot  lips  against  the  signature,  yours 
affectionately,  Diana  Rivers;  then  lay  back  and 
fought  the  hopeless  consuming  longing,  which  grew 
as  the  months  passed  by,  strengthening  as  he 
weakened. 

"  I  promised  it  should  never  mean  more  than  she 
intended,"  he  said.  "She  chose  me,  because  she 
trusted  me.  I  should  be  a  hound,  to  go  back! 
But  oh,  my  wife — my  wife — my  wife!" 


"You  can  serve  dinner  for  me  in  the  library 
to-night,  Rodgers, "  said  Diana.  "Tell  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory  I  shall  dine  there  alone.  I  am  tired.  Yes, 
thank  you;  I  caught  the  mail." 

She  shivered.  "Order  fires  everywhere,  please. 
The  place  is  like  an  ice-house.  Winter  has  taken 
us  unawares." 

She  moved  wearily  across  the  great  silent  hall, 
and  slowly  mounted  the  staircase. 

No  light  shone  through  the  stained-glass  win- 
dow at  the  bend  of  the  staircase ;  the  stem  outline 
of  Rivers  knights  stood  imrelieved  by  glow  of 
colour.  The  knight  with  the  dark  bared  head, 
his  helmet  beneath  his  arm,  more  than  ever  seemed 
to  resemble  David;  not  David  in  his  usual  quiet 
gentleness;  but  David,  standing  white  and  rigid, 
protesting,  in  startled  dismay:  "Why  not?     Why, 


The  Property  of  the  Crown        307 

because,  even  if  I  wished — even  if  you  wished — 
even  if  we  both  wished  for  each  other — in  that  way, 
Central  Africa  is  no  place  for  a  woman.  I  would 
never  take  a  woman  there." 

As  she  looked  at  the  young  knight  with  the  close- 
cropped  dark  head,  and  white  face,  she  remem- 
bered her  sudden  gust  of  fury  against  David ;  and 
the  mighty  effort  with  which  she  had  surmounted 
it.  Her  answer  came  back  to  her  with  merciless 
accuracy;  and,  turning  half  way  up  the  second 
flight  of  stairs,  she  faced  the  shadowy  knight, 
and  repeated  it  in  low  tones. 

"My  dear  Cousin  David,  you  absolutely  mis- 
take my  meaning.  I  gave  you  credit  for  more  per- 
spicacity. I  have  not  the  smallest  intention  of 
going  to  Central  Africa,  or  of  ever  inflicting  my 
presence  or  my  companionship,  upon  you  .... 
And  you  yourself  have  told  me,  over  and  over,  that 
you  never  expect  to  return  to  England. " 

Diana's  hand  tightened  upon  the  balustrade,  as 
she  stood  looking  across  at  the  big  window.  These 
were  the  words  she  had  spoken  to  David. 

The  bareheaded  knight  remained  immovable; 
but  his  face  seemed  to  whiten,  and  his  outline  to 
become  more  uncompromisingly  mail-clad. 

"David,"  came  the  low  tender  voice  from  the 
staircase," oh,  David,  I  do  want  you — 'in  thatway ' ! 


3o8        The  Following  of  the  Star 

I  would  go  to  Central  Africa  or  anywhere  else  in 
the  wide  world  to  be  with  you,  David.  Send  for  me, 
David,  or  come  to  me — oh,  David,  come  to  me!" 

The  tall  slim  figure  on  the  staircase  leaned 
towards  the  shadowy  window,  holding  out  ap- 
peaHng  arms. 

A  bitter  smile  seemed  to  gather  on  the  white 
face  of  the  steel-clad  knight.  "/  am  to  provide 
the  myrrh,"  said  David's  voice. 

Diana  turned  and  moved  slowly  upward. 

She  could  hear  the  log  fire  in  the  hall  begiiming 
to  hiss  and  crackle. 

She  shivered.  "Yes,  it  is  winter,"  she  said;  "it 
is  winter  again;  and  it  has  taken  us  unawares." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  PILGRIMAGE 

/^N  the  afternoon  of  Christmas-eve,  Diana  sat 
^-^  in  the  Hbrary  writing  to  David.  She  had 
drawn  up  a  small  table  close  to  the  fire.  The  room 
was  cosy,  and  perfectly  quiet,  excepting  for  the 
leap  and  crackle  of  flames  among  the  huge  pine 
logs. 

Diana  dated  her  letter;  then  laid  aside  her  pen, 
and,  resting  her  chin  in  her  hand,  read  over  once 
again  David's  Christmas  letter,  which  had  reached 
her  that  morning. 

It  was  very  full  of  the  consecration  of  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Star,  which  was  to  take  place  before  the 
Feast  of  Epiphany. 

It  held  no  allusions  to  the  anniversaries,  so  soon 
coming  round;  the  days  which,  a  year  ago,  had 
been  fraught  with  happenings  of  such  deep  import- 
ance to  them  both. 

Long  after  she  had  reached  Yours  ci'er,  David 
Rivers,  Diana  sat  with  bent  head,  pondering  over 
309 


310        The  Following  of  the  Star 

the  closely  written  sheets,  so  pregnant  with  omis- 
sions, trying  to  make  up  her  mind  as  to  whether 
she  should  take  her  cue  from  David,  and  ignore  the 
significance  of  these  days;  or  whether  she  should 
act  upon  her  first  instinctive  impulse,  and  write 
freely  of  them. 

The  firelight  flickered  on  her  coils  of  golden  hair, 
and  revealed  the  fact  that  her  face  had  lost  the 
rounded  contour  of  that  perfect  buo3^ancy  of 
health,  which  had  been  hers  a  year  ago.  Its  thin- 
ness, and  the  purple  shadows  beneath  the  eyes, 
made  her  look  older;  but,  as  she  lifted  her  eyes 
from  the  closely  written  sheets  of  foreign  paper, 
and  gazed,  with  a  wistful  little  smile,  into  the  fire, 
there  was  in  them  such  a  depth  of  chastened  tender- 
ness, and  in  her  whole  expression  so  gentle  a  look  of 
quiet  patience — as  of  a  heart  keeping  long  vigil, 
and  not  yet  within  sight  of  dawn — that  the  mellow- 
ing and  softening  of  the  spirit  looking  forth  from 
it,  fully  compensated  for  the  thinning  and  aging  of 
the  lovely  face.  Diana,  in  her  independent  ra- 
diance, was  there  no  longer;  but  David's  wife  took 
up  her  pen  to  write  to  David,  with  a  look  upon  her 
face,  which  would  have  brought  David  to  his  knees 
at  her  feet,  could  he  but  have  seen  it. 

Uncle  Falcon's  amber  eyes  gleamed  down  upon 
her.     They  had  never  twinkled  since  her  wedding 


A  Pilgrimage  311 

night;  but  they  often  shone  with  a  strangely  com- 
prehending Hght.  Sometimes  they  said:  "We 
have  both  won,  Diana;"  at  other  times:  "We 
have  both  lost;"  according  to  her  mood.  But 
always  they  were  kindly;  and  always  they  gave 
her  sympathy;  and,  unfailingly,  they  understood. 

The  old  house  rang  with  the  merry  voices  of 
children.  Notwithstanding  the  solemn  protesta- 
tions of  old  Rodgers,  they  were  apparently  play- 
ing hide-and-seek  up  and  down  the  oak  staircase, 
along  the  upper  corridors,  and  in  and  out  of  the 
deep  hall  cupboards. 

Diana  was  not  fond  of  children.  An  extra  loud 
whoop  or  bang  in  her  vicinity,  did  not  call  up  an 
indulgent  smile  upon  her  face;  and,  at  last,  when 
the  whole  party  apparently  fell  headlong  dowTi  the 
stairs  together,  Diana,  with  a  frown  of  annoyance, 
rang  the  bell  and  told  Rodgers  to  request  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory  to  see  that  there  was  less  roughness  in  the 
games. 

Certainly  Diana  was  not  naturally  fond  of 
children.  Yet  during  these  years  in  which  she 
was  striving  to  let  her  whole  life  be  a  perpetual 
offering  of  frankincense,  she  filled  her  house  with 
them,  at  Christmas,  Easter,  and  mid-summer. 

They  were  the  children  of  missionaries ;  boys  and 
girls  at  school  in  England,  whose  parents  in  far 


312        The  Following  of  the  Star 

distant  parts  of  the  world,  could  give  them  no  wel- 
come home  in  holiday  time.  They  would  have 
had  a  sad  travesty  of  holidays  at  school,  had  not 
Diana  invited  them  to  Riverscourt,  giving  them  a 
right  royal  time,  under  the  gentle  supervision  of 
Mrs.  Mallory,  the  young  widow  of  a  missionary 
killed  in  China,  who  now  lived  with  Diana,  as  her 
companion  and  secretary;  Mrs.  Marmaduke  Vane 
had  wedded  Mr.  Inglestry,  within  three  months 
of  Diana's  own  marriage. 

As  the  house  grew  more  quiet,  Diana  again  took 
up  her  pen.  She  could  hear  Mrs.  Mallory  shep- 
herding the  children  along  the  upper  corridors, 
into  a  play-room  at  the  further  end  of  the  house. 

For  a  moment  she  felt  a  pang  of  compunction  at 
having  so  peremptorily  stopped  the  hide-and-seek ; 
but  salved  her  conscience  by  the  remembrance  of 
the  magnificant  Christmas-tree,  loaded  with  gifts, 
standing  ready  in  the  ante-room,  for  the  morrow's 
festivities. 

Poor  little  forsaken  girls  and  boys !  She  had  no 
mother-love  to  give  them.  But  she  gave  them 
what  she  could — gold,  frankincense;  in  many  cases 
the  climate  in  which  their  parents  lived  provided 
the  myrrh,  when  they  had  to  be  told  at  school  of  the 
death,  in  a  far-off  land,  of  a  passionately  loved  and 
longed-for  mother,  whose  possible   home-coming 


A  Pilgrimage  3^3 

before  long,  had  been  the  one  gleam  of  light  on  the 
grey  horizon  of  a  lonely  little  heart's  school-life. 

Poor  desolate  little  children;  orphaned,  yet  not 
orphans ! 

Diana  laid  down  her  pen,  and  stretched  her  hand 
towards  the  bell,  to  send  word  that  the  hide-and- 
seek  might  go  on.  Then  smiled  at  her  own  weak- 
ness. Why,  even  their  mothers  would  have  been 
obHged  sometimes  to  say : ' '  Hush ! "  If  only  Diana 
had  known  it,  their  own  mothers  would  have  said 
"Hush!"  far  more  often  than  she  did! 

She  took  up  her  pen,  and  her  surroundings  were 
completely  forgotten,  as  she  talked  to  David. 

"  RiVERScouRT,  Christmas-eve. 

"  My  dear  David, — How  well  you  timed  your 
Christmas  letter.  It  reached  me  this  morning.  So 
I  have  it  for  Christmas-eve,  Christmas-day,  and 
Boxing-day — all  three  important  anniversaries  to 
us.  Had  I  but  thought  of  it  in  time,  I  might  have 
kept  a  sheet  for  each  day.  Instead  of  which,  in 
my  •  eagerness  for  news  concerning  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Star,  I  read  your  whole  long  letter 
through,  the  very  moment  I  received  it.  However, 
it  will  bear  reading  twice,  or  even  three  times;  it  is 
so  full  of  interest. 

"Indeed  I  shall  be  with  you  in  thought  at  the 


314        The  Following  of  the  Star 

opening  ceremony.  I  intend  to  motor  over  to 
Winchester,  and  spend  the  time  in  prayer  and 
meditation  in  your  Httle  Chapel  of  the  Epiphany. 

"It  will  not  by  any  means  be  my  first  pilgrimage 
there,  David.  It  is  the  place  of  all  others  where  I 
find  I  can  most  easily  pray  for  your  work.  I 
kneel  where  you  knelt,  and  look  up  at  the  stained 
glass  representation  of  the  Wise  Men.  It  brings 
back  every  word  of  the  sermon  you  preached  this 
day  last  year. 

"When  you  were  there,  did  you  happen  to  notice 
the  window  on  the  left,  as  you  kneel  at  the  rail? 
It  represents  the  Virgin  bending  over  the  Baby 
Christ.  She  is  holding  both  His  little  feet  in  one 
of  her  hands.  I  can't  understand  why;  but  that 
action  seems  so  extraordinarily  to  depict  the  ten- 
derness of  her  mother-love.  I  dislike  babies 
myself,  exceedingly;  yet,  ever  since  I  saw  that  win- 
dow, I  have  been  pursued  by  the  desire  to  hold  a 
baby's  two  little  feet  in  my  hand  that  way,  just 
to  see  how  it  feels !  I  am  certain  your  mother  often 
held  your  feet  so,  when  you  were  a  wee  baby,  David ; 
and  I  am  equally  certain  my  mother  never  held 
mine.  Don't  you  think  tenderness,  shown  to  little 
children,  before  they  are  old  enough  to  know  what 
tenderness  means,  makes  a  difference  to  their 
whole  lives?     I  am  sure  I  grew  up  hard-hearted, 


A  Pilgrimage  315 

simply  because  no  demonstration  of  affection  was 
ever  poured  out  upon  me  in  my  infancy.  You 
grew  up  so  sweet  and  affectionate  to  every  one, 
simply  because  your  mother  lavished  love  upon 
you,  kissed  your  curls,  and  held  both  your  baby 
feet  in  one  of  her  tender  hands,  when  you  were  a 
tiny  wee  little  kiddie,  and  knew  nothing  at  all 
about  it!  There!  Now  you  have  one  of  my 
theories  of  life,  thought  out  as  I  knelt  in  your  Httle 
chapel,  meaning  to  spend  the  whole  time  in  prayer 
for  your  work. 

"Last  time  I  was  there,  just  as  I  left  the  chapel, 
Even-song  was  beginning.  I  slipt  quietly  down  the 
cathedral  and  sat  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  vast 
nave.  The  service  was  going  on  away  up  in  the 
choir,  through  distant  gates.  The  music  seemed  to 
come  floating  down  from  heaven.  They  sang  the 
'Nunc  Dimittis'  to  Garrett  in  F.  'Lord,'  whis- 
pered the  angel  voices,  on  gently  floating  harmony : 
'Lord,  now  lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in 
peace.'  'Depart  in  peace,'  repeated  the  silvery 
trebles,  soaring  back  to  heaven !  I  thought  of  you ; 
and  of  how  you  quoted  it,  looking  up  at  the  picture 
of  Simeon  in  the  temple,  as  we  walked  down  old 
St.  Botolph's  Church.  How  relieved  you  were  to 
be  off,  David;  and  how  glad  to  go. 

"I  still  make  pilgrimages  to  St.  Botolph's,  when 


,i6        The  Following  of  the  Star 


CIS 


spending  any  time  in  town ;  or  when  I  take  a  panic 
over  your  health,  or  your  many  African  perils, 
snakes,  poisoned  darts,  and  such  like  things — not 
to  mention  an  early  hippopotamus,  dancing  a 
cake-walk  in  your  front-garden,  before  breakfast. 

"The  verger  is  becoming  accustomed  to  my  visits. 
At  first  she  watched  me  with  suspicion,  evidently 
fearing  lest  I  had  designs  on  the  cherubs  of  the 
lectern,  or  purposed  carving  my  name  upon  the 
altar-rail.  When  she  found  my  prayer  and  medi- 
tation covered  no  such  sinister  intentions,  she  gave 
up  prowling  round,  and  merely  kept  an  eye  on  me 
from  her  seat  at  the  bottom  of  the  church.  Last 
time  I  went,  I  had  quite  a  long  talk  with  her,  and 
found  her  a  most  interesting  and  well-informed  per- 
son ;  well  up  in  the  history  of  the  old  church,  and 
taking  a  touching  pride  and  delight  in  it ;  evidently 
fulfilling  her  duties  with  reverent  love  and  care; 
not  in  the  perfunctory  spirit  one  finds  only  too 
often  among  church  officials. 

"  But,  oh  David,  what  a  contrast  between  this  re- 
fined, well-educated  woman,  and  the  extraordinary 
old  caretaker  at  that  church  to  which  you  went 
when  you  were  first  ordained!  Did  I  tell  you,  I 
made  a  pilgrimage  there?  I  thought  it  a  beautiful 
church,  and  took  a  quite  particular  interest  in  see- 
ing the  pulpit,  and  all  the  other  places  in  which 


A  Pilgrimage  317 

you  performed,  for  the  first  time,  the  sacred  func- 
tions of  your  holy  office. 

"But  I  can't  return  there,  David,  or  remember 
it  with  pleasure,  because  of  the  appalling  old  gnome 
who  haunts  it,  and  calls  herself  the  'curtiker'.  I 
never  saw  anything  quite  so  terrifyingly  dirty,  or 
so  weirdly  coming  to  pieces  in  every  possible  place 
and  yet  keeping  together.  And  there  was  no 
avoiding   her.     She   appeared   to   be   ubiquitous. 

"  When  I  first  entered  the  church,  she  was  on  her 
knees  in  the  aisle,  flopping  a  very  grimy  piece  of 
house  flannel  in  and  out  of  a  zinc  pail,  containing 
what  looked  like  an  unpleasant  compound  of  ink 
and  soapsuds.  Our  acquaintance  began  by  her 
exhorting  me,  in  a  very  loud  voice,  to  keep  out  of 
the  'pile.'  The  pail  was  the  very  last  place  into 
which  one  would  desire  to  go.  So,  carefully  keep- 
ing out  of  it,  and  avoiding  the  flops  of  the  flannel, 
which  landed  each  time  in  quite  unexpected  places, 
I  fled  up  the  church.  A  moment  later,  as  I  walked 
round  the  pulpit  examining  the  panels,  she  popped 
up  in  it  triumphant,  waving  a  black  rag,  which 
I  suppose  did  duty  for  a  duster.  Her  sudden  ap- 
pearance, in  the  place  where  I  was  picturing  you 
giving  out  your  first  text,  made  me  jump  nearly 
out  of  my  skin.  Whereupon  she  said : '  Gam ! '  and 
came  chuckling  down  the  steps,  flapping  her  black 


31 8        The  Following  of  the  Star 

rag  on  the  balustrade.  I  had  n't  a  notion  what 
'gam'  meant;  but  concluded  it  was  cockney  for 
'go  on,'  and  hurriedly  went. 

' '  But  it  was  no  good  dodging  round  pillars  or 
taking  circuitous  routes  down  one  aisle  and  up  an- 
other, in  attempts  to  avoid  her.  Wherever  I  went, 
she  was  there  before  me ;  always  brandishing  some 
fresh  implement  connected  with  the  process  which, 
in  any  other  hands,  might  have  been  church  clean- 
ing. So  at  last  I  gave  up  trying  to  avoid  her,  and 
stood  my  ground  bravely,  in  the  hopes  of  gleaning 
information  from  her  very  remarkable  conversa- 
tion. I  say  'bravely,'  because  she  became  much 
more  terrifying  when  she  talked.  She  held  her  left 
eye  shut,  with  her  left  hand,  put  her  face  very  close 
to  mine,  and  looked  at  me  out  of  the  right  eye.  She 
did  n't  seem  able  to  talk  without  looking  at  me; 
or  to  look  at  me,  without  holding  one  eye  shut. 

"  I  was  dining  at  the  Brands'  that  evening,  and 
happened  to  say  to  the  man  who  took  me  in :  '  Do 
you  know  how  terrifying  it  is  to  talk  to  a  person 
who  holds  one  eye  shut,  and  looks  at  you  with 
the  other?'  He  wanted  to  know  what  I  meant; 
so  I  showed  how  my  old  lady  had  done  it,  with  head 
pushed  forward,  and  elbow  well  up.  Everybody 
else  went  into  fits ;  but  my  man  turned  out  to  be  a 
rising  oculist,  and  took  it  quite  seriously;  declared 


A  Pilgrimage  319 

it  must  be  a  bad  case  of  astigmatism ;  asked  the 
name  of  the  church,  and  is  going  off  there  to  ex- 
amine her  eyes  and  prescribe  glasses ! 

"  I  tell  you  all  this,  in  case  she  was  a  proteg6  of 
yours;  for  she  remembers  you,  David. 

"  I  am  doubtful  as  to  what  manner  of  reception 
she  will  give  to  my  friend  the  oculist.  I  felt  bound 
to  tell  him  she  would  most  probably  say  '  Gam ! ' 
and  his  convulsive  amusement,  seemed  to  me  dis- 
proportionate to  the  mildness  of  the  joke.  Her  in- 
comprehensible remarks,  and  her  astonishing  cock- 
ney make  rational  conversation  with  her  very  diffi- 
cult. While  I  was  in  the  church,  a  mild-looking 
curate  came  in,  and  tried  to  explain  something 
which  was  wanted.  I  could  not  hear  the  conversa- 
tion, but  I  saw  her,  at  the  bottom  of  the  church, 
holding  her  eye,  and  glaring  at  him.  She  came 
back  to  me,  brandishing  a  dustpan.  '  'Ear  that?' 
she  said.  'Gam!  As  I  always  say  to  'em:  "A 
nod  's  as  good  as  a  wink  to  a  blind  'orse!'" 

"  Now  that  sounded  like  a  proverb,  and  she  said 
it  as  if  it  were  a  very  deep  pronouncement,  which 
might  settle  all  ecclesiastical  difficulties,  and  solve 
all  parochial  problems.  But,  when  one  comes  to 
think  of  it,  what  on  earth  does  it  mean? 

**  Well,  David,  she  remembers  you;  so  I  have  no 
doubt  whatever   that   vou   know  all  about  her; 


320        The  Following  of  the  Star 

when  she  became  a  widow — all  caretakers  are 
widows,  are  n't  they?  how,  and  from  what  cause; 
the  exact  number  of  her  children;  how  many  she 
has  buried,  and  how  many  are  out  in  the  world; 
what  'carried  off'  the  former,  and  what  are  the 
various  occupations  of  the  latter.  Not  possessing 
your  wonderful  faculty  for  unearthing  the  family 
history  and  inner  life  of  caretakers,  I  only  know, 
that  her  favourite  conviction  is:  that  a  nod  's  as 
good  as  a  wink  to  a  blind  horse;  and — that  she 
remembers  you. 

"  I  felt  shy  about  mentioning  you,  while  I  was 
examining  all  the  places  of  special  interest;  but 
when  I  reached  the  door,  to  which  she  accom- 
panied me,  gaily  twirling  a  moulting  feather 
broom,  I  turned,  and  ventured  to  ask  whether 
she  remembered  you.  She  instantly  clapped  her 
hand  over  her  eye ;  but  the  other  gleamed  at  me, 
with  a  concentrated  scorn,  for  asking  so  needless 
a  question;  and  with  ill-disguised  mistrust,  as  if 
I  were  a  person  who  had  no  business  to  have  even 
a  nodding  acquaintance  with  you. 

"  '  It  would  taike  a  lot  of  furgittin'  ter  furgit 
'z'm!'  she  observed,  her  face  threateningly  near 
mine ;  the  whirling  feather  broom  moulting  freely 
over  both  of  us.  *  'E  's  the  sort  of  gent  as 
maikes  a  body  remember?' 


A  Pil<n-imac^e  321 


't>'  '*""t5 


"  So  now,  my  dear  David,  we  know  why  I  never 
forget  to  write  to  you  by  each  mail.  You  are  the 
sort  of  gent  who  makes  a  body  remember! 

"I  asked  her  what  she  chiefly  recollected  about 
you.  She  stared  at  me  for  a  minute,  with  chill 
disapproval.  Then  her  face  illumined,  suddenly. 
"Is  smoile,'  she  said. 

"  I  fled  to  my  motor.  I  felt  suddenly  hysterical. 
She  had  such  quaint  black  grapes  in  her  bonnet; 
and  you  have  rather  a  nice  smile  you  know,  David. 

"Not  many  smiles  come  my  way,  nowadays, 
excepting  Mrs.  Mallory's;  and  they  are  so  very 
ready-made.  You  feci  you  could  buy  them  in 
Houndsditch,  at  so  much  a  gross.  I  know  about 
Houndsditch,  because  it  is  exactly  opposite  St. 
Botolph's,  out  of  Bishopsgate  Street.  I  tried  to 
have  a  little  friendly  conversation  with  the  people 
who  stand  in  the  gutter  all  along  there,  selling  ex- 
traordinary little  toys  for  a  penny ;  also  studs  and 
buttonhooks,  and  bootlaces.  They  told  me  they 
bought  them  in  Houndsditch  by  the  gross.  One 
man  very  kindly  offered  to  take  me  to  Hounds- 
ditch, and  show  me  where  they  bought  them.  It 
was  close  by;  so  I  went.  He  walked  beside  me, 
talking  volubly  all  the  way.  He  called  me  '  Lidy,' 
all  the  time.  It  sounded  uncomfortably  like  a 
sort  of  pet-name,  such  as  'Liza  or  'Tilda;  but  I 


322        The  Following  of  the  Star 

believe  it  was  Bishopsgate  for  'Lady',  and  intended 
to  be  ver>^  respectful. 

"  The  wholesale  shop  was  a  marvellous  place;  so 
full  of  little  toys,  and  beads,  and  scent-bottles,  and 
bootlaces,  that  you  just  crowded  in  amongst  them, 
and  wondered  whether  you  would  ever  get  out 
again. 

"  My  very  dirty  friend,  was  also  very  eager,  and 
pushed  our  way  through  to  the  counter.  He  ex- 
plained to  a  salesman  that  I  was  a  '  lidy '  who  want- 
ed to  'buoy.'  The  salesman  looked  amused;  but 
there  seemed  no  let  or  hindrance  in  the  way  of  my 
'  buoying, '  so  I  bought  heaps  of  queer  things,  kept 
samples  of  each,  and  gave  all  the  rest  to  my  friend 
for  his  stock-in-trade.  He  was  so  vociferous  in  his 
thanks  and  praises,  and  indiscriminate  mention  of 
both  future  states,  that  I  dreaded  the  walk  back 
to  Bishopsgate.  But,  fortunately,  Knox,  having 
seen  me  cross  the  road,  had  had  the  gumption  to 
follow;  so  there  stood  the  motor  blocking  the  way 
in  Houndsditch.  Into  it  I  fled,  and  was  whirled 
westward,  followed  by  a  final:  'Gawd  bless  yur, 
lidy!'  from  my  grateful  guide. 

"  These  people  alarm  me  so,  because  I  am  never 
sure  what  they  may  not  be  going  to  say  next. 
When  you  talk  to  them,  David,  you  always  seem 
able  to  hold  the  conversation.     But  if  /  talk  to 


A  Pilgrimage  323 

them,  almost  immediately  it  is  they  who  are  talk- 
ing to  me;  while  I  am  nervously  trying  to  find  a  way 
to  escape  from  what  I  fear  they  are  about  to  say. 
"  But  I  was  telling  you  of  Mrs.  Mallorj-^'s 
smiles 

"  Just  as  I  wrote  that,  my  dear  David,  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory  appeared  at  the  door,  wearing  one  of  them,  and 
inquired  whether  I  was  aware  that  it  was  nearly 
eleven  o'clock;  all  the  children  were  asleep,  and 
she  was  waiting  to  help  me  '  do  Santa  Claus'  ? 

"  So  I  had  to  leave  off  writing,  then  and  there, 
and  '  do  Santa  Claus'  for  my  large  family,  with  Mrs. 
Mallory's  help.  I  began  my  letter  early  in  the 
afternoon;  and,  with  only  short  breaks  for  tea  and 
dinner,  have  been  writing  ever  since.  Time  seems 
to  fly  while  I  sit  scribbling  to  you  of  all  my  foolish 
doings.  I  only  hope  they  do  not  bore  you,  David. 
If  the  reading  of  them  amuses  you,  as  much  as  the 
writing  amuses  me,  we  ought  both  to  be  fairly  well 
entertained. 

"  Now  I  am  back  in  the  library',  having  been 
round  to  all  the  beds,  leaving  behind  at  each  a  fat, 
mysterious,  lumpy,  rustling,  stocking!  Oh,  do  you 
remember  the  feel  of  it,  as  one  sat  up  in  the  dark? 
One  had  fallen  asleep,  after  a  final  fingering  of  its 
limp  emptiness.   One  woke — remembered! — sat  up 


324        The  Following  of  the  Star 

— reached  out  a  breathless  hand — and  lo!  it  was 
plump  and  full — filled  to  overflowing.  Santa  Claus 
had  come! 

"  I  wish  Santa  Claus  would  come  to  empty 
hearts ! 

"  David  you  don't  know  how  hard  it  is  to  go 
the  round  of  those  little  beds  upstairs,  and  see  the 
curly  tumbled  heads  on  the  pillows;  feeling  so  Httle 
oneself  about  each  individual  head,  yet  knowing 
that  each  one  represents  a  poor  mother,  thou- 
sands of  miles  away,  who  has  gone  to  bed  aching 
for  a  sight  of  the  tumbled  curls  on  which  I  look 
unmoved ;  who  would  give  anything — anything — 
to  be  in  my  shoes  just  for  that  five  minutes. 

"There  is  a  tiny  girl  here  now,  we  call  her  'Little 
Fairy,  *  whose  mother  died  eight  weeks  ago,  just 
as  the  parents  were  preparing  to  return  to  England. 
The  Httle  one  is  not  to  be  told  until  the  father  ar- 
rives, and  tells  her  himself.  She  thinks  both  are 
on  the  way.  She  talks  very  little  of  the  father, 
who  appears  to  be  a  somewhat  austere  man ;  but 
every  day  she  says :  '  Mummie  's  tumming  home ! 
Mummie  's  tumming  home ! '  When  her  little 
feet  begin  to  dance  as  she  trips  across  the  hall,  I 
know  they  are  dancing  to  the  tune  of  '  Mummie 's 
tumming  home!'  Each  evening  she  gives  me  a 
soft  little  cheek  to  kiss,  saying  anxiously:   'Not 


A  Pilgrimage  325 

my  mouf,  Mrs.  Rivers;  I  's  keeping  that  for 
mummie ! '  It's  breaking  me,  David.  If  it  goes 
on  much  longer  I  shall  have  to  gather  her  into  my 
arms,  and  tell  her  the  truth,  myself. 

"Oh,  why — why — why  do  people  do  these  things 
in  the  name  of  religion;  on  account  of  so-called 
Christian  work. 

"  I  wish  I  loved  children!  Do  you  think  there  is 
something  radically  wrong  with  one's  whole  nature, 
when  one  is  n't  naturally  fond  of  children? 

"  Hark!  I  hear  chimes!  David,  it  is  Christmas 
morning!  This  day  last  year,  you  dined  with  me. 
Where  shall  we  be  this  time  next  year,  I  wonder? 
What  shall  we  be  doing? 

"  I  wish  you  a  happy  Christmas,  David. 

"Do  you  remember  Sarah's  Christmas  card? 
Yes,  of  course  you  do.  You  never  forget  such 
things.  Sarah  retailed  to  me  the  conversation  in 
St.  Botolph's  about  it;  all  you  said  to  her;  all  she 
said  to  you.  So  you  and  I  were  the  turtle-doves! 
No  wonder  you  'fair  shook  with  laughin'!'  Good 
old  Sarah !  I  wonder  whether  she  has  '  gone  to  a 
chicken'  for  god- papa.  Oh,  no!  I  believe  I  sent 
him  a  turkey. 

"There  are  the  'waits'  under  the  portico. 
*Hark  the  herald  augcls  sing!' 


326        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"I  hope  they  won't  wake  my  sleeping  family,  or 
there  will  be  a  premature  feeling  in  stockings. 
These  selfsame  *  waits '  woke  me  at  midnight  when 
I  was  six  years  old.  I  felt  in  my  stocking,  though 
I  knew  I  ought  not  to  do  so  until  morning.  I 
drew  out  something  which  rattled  deliciously  in  the 
darkness.  A  little  round  box,  filled  with  '  hundreds 
and  thousands.'  Do  you  know  those  tiny,  col- 
oured goodies?  I  poured  them  into  my  eager 
little  palm.  I  clapped  it  to  my  mouth,  as  I  sat 
up  in  my  cot,  in  the  dark.  I  shall  never  forget 
that  first  scrunch.     They  were  mixed  beads! 

"Moral 

"No,  you  will  draw  a  better  moral  than  I.  My 
morals  usually  work  out  the  wrong  way. 

' '  I  must  finish  this  letter  on  Boxing-day.  Christ- 
mas-day will  be  very  full,  with  a  Christmas-tree 
and  all  sorts  of  plans  for  these  little  children  of 
other  people. 

"Well  the  mail  does  not  go  until  the  26th,  and  I 
shall  like  to  have  written  to  you  on  our  three  special 
days — Christmas-eve,  Christmas-day,  and  Boxing- 
day. 

"Good-night,  David." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A  QUESTION  OF  CONSCIENCE 

"Boxing-day. 
"  \\TELL,  my  dear  David,  all  our  festivities  are 

''  '  over,  and,  having  piloted  our  party  safely 
into  the  calm  waters  of  Boxing-day  afternoon,  I 
am  free  to  retire  to  the  library,  and  resume  m^'' 
talk  with  you. 

"What  a  wonderful  season  is  Christmas!  It 
seems  to  represent  words  entirely  delightful. 
Light,  warmth,  gifts,  open  hearts,  open  hands, 
goodwill — and,  I  suppose  the  children  would  add: 
turkey,  mince-pies,  and  plum-pudding.  Well,  why 
not?  I  am  by  no  means  ashamed  of  looking 
forward  to  my  Christmas  turkey;  in  fact  I  once 
mentioned  it  in  a  vestry  as  an  alluring  prospect,  to 
a  stem  young  man  in  a  cassock !  I  must  have  had 
the  courage  of  my  convictions! 

"No,  the  fact  of  the  matter  is,  I  was  ver>^  young 
then,  David;  very  crude;  altogether  inexperienced. 
You  would  find  me  older  now;  mellowed,  I  hope; 
matured.     Family  cares  have  aged  me. 

3-V 


328        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"Yesterday,  however,  being  Christmas-day,  I 
threw  off  my  maturity,  just  as  one  gleefully  leaves 
off  wearing  kid  gloves  at  the  seaside,  and  became 
an  infant  with  the  infants.  How  we  romped,  and 
how  delightfully  silly  we  were !  After  the  mid-day 
Christmas  dinner,  as  we  all  sat  round  at  dessert, 
I  could  see  Mrs.  Mallory  eying  me  with  amazed 
contempt,  because  I  wore  the  contents  of  my 
cracker — a  fine  guardsman's  helmet,  and  an  eye- 
glass, which  I  jerked  out,  and  screwed  in  again,  at 
intervals,  to  amuse  the  children.  When  I  sur- 
prised Mrs.  Mallory's  gaze  of  pitying  scorn,  I 
screwed  in  the  eyeglass  for  her  especial  benefit,  and 
looked  at  her  through  it,  saying:  'Don't  I  wear  it 
as  if  to  the  manner  born,  Mrs.  Mallory?'  'Oh, 
quite,'  said  Mrs.  Mallory,  with  an  appreciative 
smile.  'Quite,  my  dear  Mrs.  Rivers;  quite.' 
Which  was  so  very  '  quite  quite, '  that  nothing  re- 
mained but  for  me  to  fix  on  my  guardsman's  hel- 
met more  firmly,  and  salute. 

"Mrs.  Mallory's  cracker  had  produced  a  jockey 
cap,  in  green  and  yellow,  and  it  would  have  de- 
lighted the  children  if  she  had  worn  it  jauntily  on 
her  elaborately  crimped  coiffure.  But  she  insisted 
upon  an  exchange  with  a  dear  little  girl  seated 
next  her,  who  was  feeling  delightfully  grown-up, 
in   a   white  frilled   Marie  Antoinette  cap,   with 


A  Question  of  Conscience         329 

pink  ribbons.  This,  on  Mrs.  Mallory's  head,  ex- 
cept that  it  was  made  of  paper,  was  exactly  what 
she  might  have  bought  for  herself  in  Bond  Street; 
so  she  had  achieved  the  conventional,  and  success- 
fully avoided  amusing  us  by  the  grotesque.  The 
jockey  cap  was  exactly  the  same  shape  as  the  black 
velvet  one  I  keep  for  the  little  girls  to  wear  when 
they  ride  the  pony  in  the  park.  The  disappoint- 
ment on  the  face  of  the  small  owner  of  the  pretty 
mob-cap,  passed  quite  unnoticed  by  Mrs.  Mallory. 
Yet  she  adores  children.  I ,  who  only  tolerate  them, 
saw  it.  So  did  the  oldest  of  the  boys — such  a 
nice  Uttle  fellow.  'I  say,  Mrs.  Rivers,'  he  said, 
'Swapping  shouldn't  be  allowed.'  'Quite 
right,  Rodney,'  said  I.  'Kiddies,  there  is  to  be 
no  swapping!'  'Surel}', '  remarked  Mrs.  IMal- 
lor>',  in  her  shocked  voice,  'no  one  present  here, 
would  think  of  swapping? '  Rodney  said,  '  Crikey ! ' 
under  his  breath;  and  I  have  n't  a  notion,  to  this 
hour,  what  meaning  the  elegant  verb  'to  swap* 
holds  for  Mrs.  Mallory. 

"  But  here  I  go  again,  telling  you  of  all  sorts  of 
happenings  in  our  home  life,  which  must  seem 
to  you  so  trivial.  I  wish  I  could  write  a  more  in- 
teresting letter;  especially  this  afternoon,  David. 
This  time  last  year  you  and  I  were  having  our 
momentous   talk.     There   was   certainly   nothing 


330        The  Following  of  the  Star 

trivial  about  that!  I  sometimes  wish  you  could 
know — oh,  no  matter  what!  It  is  useless  to  dwell 
perpetually  on  vain  regrets.  And  as  we  are  on 
the  subject  of  Mrs.  Mallory,  David,  I  want  to  ask 
your  opinion  on  a  question  of  conscience  which 
came  up  between  her  and  myself. 

"Oh,  David,  how  often  I  wish  you  were  here  to 
tackle  her  for  me,  as  you  used  to  tackle  poor  old 
Chappie;  only  the  difficulties  caused  by  Chappie's 
sins,  were  as  nothing,  compared  with  the  compli- 
cations caused  by  Lucy  Mallory's  virtues. 

"She  is  such  a  gentle-looking  Httle  woman,  in 
trailing  widow's  weeds;  a  pink  and  white  complex- 
ion, china  blue  eyes,  and  masses  of  flaxen  hair 
elaborately  puffed  and  crimped.  She  never  knows 
her  own  mind,  for  five  minutes  at  a  time;  is  never 
quite  sure  on  any  point,  or  able  to  give  you  a 
straight-forward  yes  or  no.  And  yet,  in  some  re- 
spects, she  is  the  most  obstinate  person  I  ever  came 
across.  My  old  donkey,  Jeshurun,  isn't  in  it 
with  Mrs.  Mallory,  when  once  she  puts  her  dainty 
foot  down,  and  refuses  to  budge.  Jeshimin  waxed 
fat  and  kicked,  and  did  everything  he  should  n't; 
but  always  yielded  to  the  seduction  of  a  carrot. 
But  it  is  no  good  waving  carrots  at  Mrs.  Mallory. 
She  won't  look  at  them!  She  reminds  me  of  the 
deaf  adder  who  stoppeth  her  ears,  lest  she  should 


A  Question  of  Conscience         331 

hear  the  voice  of  the  charmer.  And  always  about 
such  silly  little  things,  that  they  are  not  worth  a 
battle. 

"  But  the  greatest  trial  of  all  is,  that  she  has  a 
morbid  conscience. 

"  Oh,  David!  Did  you  ever  have  to  live  with  a 
person  who  had  a  morbid  conscience? 

"  Now — if  it  won't  bore  you — may  I  just  give  you 
an  instance  of  the  working  of  Mrs.  IVlallory's  mor- 
bid conscience,  and  perhaps  you  will  help  me,  by 
making  a  clear  pronouncement  on  the  matter.  Re- 
member, I  only  have  her  here  because  she  is  a 
missionary's  widow,  left  badly  off;  and  not  strong 
enough  to  imdertake  school  teaching,  or  any  ardu- 
ous post  involving  long  hours.  I  have  tried  to 
make  her  feel  at  home  here,  and  she  seems  happy. 
Sometimes  she  is  a  really  charming  companion. 

"  The  first  evening  she  was  here,  she  told  me  she 
had  always  been  'a  great  Bible  student.'  She 
spends  much  time  over  a  very  large  Bible,  which 
she  marks  in  various  coloured  inks,  and  "wdth  ex- 
traordinary criss-cross  lines,  which  she  calls  'rail- 
ways'. She  explained  the  system  to  me  one  day, 
and  showed  me  a  new  'line'  she  had  just  made. 
You  started  at  the  top  of  a  page  at  the  word  little. 
Then  you  followed  down  a  blue  line,  which  brought 
you  to  a  second  mention  of  the  word  little.     From 


332        The  Following  of  the  Star 

there  you  zigzagged  off,  still  on  blue,  right  across  to 
the  opposite  page;  and  there  found  little,  again. 
This  was  a  junction!  If  you  started  down  a  fur- 
ther blue  line  you  arrived  at  yet  a  fourth  little,  but 
if  you  adventured  along  a  red  line,  you  found  less. 

"I  had  hoped  to  learn  a  lot  from  Mrs.  Mallory, 
when  she  said  she  was  a  great  Bible  student,  be- 
cause I  am  so  new  at  Bible  study,  and  have  no  one 
to  help  me.  But  I  confess  these  railway  excursions 
from  little  to  little,  and  from  little  to  less,  appear  to 
me  somewhat  futile!  None  of  the  littles  had  any 
connection  with  one  another;  that  is,  imtil  Mrs. 
Mallory's  blue  railway  connected  them.  She  is 
now  making  a  study  of  all  the  Marys  of  the  Bible. 
She  has  a  system  by  which  she  is  going  to  prove 
that  they  were  all  one  and  the  same  person.  I 
suggested  that  this  would  be  an  infinite  pity;  as 
they  all  have  such  beautiful  individual  characters, 
and  such  beautiful  individual  histories. 

'"Truth  before  beauty,  my  dear  Mrs.  Rivers,' 
said  Mrs.  Mallory. 

'"Cannot  truth  and  beauty  go  together?'  I 
inquired. 

" '  No,  indeed,'  pronoimced  Mrs.  Mallory,  firmly. 
*  Truth  is  a  narrow  line ;  beauty  is  a  snare. ' 

"According  to  which  method  of  reasoning,  my 
dear  David,  I  ought  to  have  serious  misgivings  as 


A  Question  of  Conscience         333 

to  whether  your  Christmas-eve  sermon,  which 
changed  my  whole  outlook  on  life,  was  true — seeing 
that  it  most  certainly  was  beautiful ! 

"  Now  listen  to  my  little  story. 

' '  One  morning,  during  this  last  autumn,  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory  received  a  business  letter  at  breakfast,  necessi- 
tating an  immediate  journey  to  town,  for  a  trying 
interview.  After  much  weighing  of  pros  and  cons, 
she  decided  upon  a  train;  and  I  sent  her  to  the 
station  in  the  motor. 

"A  sadly  worried  and  distressed  little  face  looked 
out  and  bowed  a  tearful  farewell  to  me,  as  she  de- 
parted. I  knew  she  had  hoped  I  should  offer  to  go 
with  her;  but  it  was  a  lovely  October  day,  and  I 
wanted  a  morning  in  the  garden,  and  a  ride  in  the 
afternoon.  It  happened  to  be  a  very  free  day  for 
me ;  and  I  did  not  feel  at  all  like  wasting  the  golden 
sunshine  over  a  day  in  town,  in  and  out  of  shops 
with  Mrs.  Mallory;  watching  her  examine  all  the 
things  which  she,  after  all,  could  not  'feel  it  quite 
right  to  buy. '  She  never  appears  to  question  the 
rightness  of  giving  tired  shop  people  endless  un- 
necessary labour.  I  knew  she  intended  combining 
hours  of  this  kind  of  negative  enjoyment,  with  her 
trying  interview. 

"  So  I  turned  back  into  the  house,  sat  down  in  the 
sunny  bay  window  of  the  breakfast  room,  and  took 


334        The  Following  of  the  Star 

up  the  Times;  thankful  that  the  dear  lady  had  de- 
parted by  the  earliest  of  the  three  trains  which  had 
been  under  discussion  during  the  greater  part  of 
breakfast. 

"  But  my  conscience  would  not  let  me  enjoy  my 
morning  paper  in  peace.  I  had  not  read  five  lines 
before  I  knew  that  it  would  have  been  kind  to  have 
gone  with  Mrs.  Mallory;  I  had  not  read  ten,  be- 
fore I  knew  that  it  was  unkind  to  have  let  the  poor 
little  soul  go  alone.  She  was  a  widow  and  wor- 
ried; and  she  had  mentioned  the  departed  Philip, 
as  a  bitterly  regretted  shield,  prop,  and  mainstay, 
many  times  during  breakfast. 

' '  I  looked  at  the  clock.  The  motor  was,  of  course, 
gone;  and  the  quarter  of  an  hour  it  would  take  to 
send  down  to  the  stables  and  put  in  a  horse  would 
lose  me  the  train.  I  could  just  do  it  on  my  bicycle 
if  I  got  off  in  four  minutes,  and  rode  hard. 

"Rodgers  trotted  out  my  machine,  while  I  rushed 
up  for  a  hat  and  gloves.  I  was  wearing  the  short 
tweed  skirt,  Norfolk  coat,  and  stout  boots,  in 
which  I  had  intended  to  tramp  about  the  park  and 
gardens;  but  there  was  not  time  to  change.  I 
caught  up  the  first  hat  I  could  lay  hands  on, 
slipped  on  a  pair  of  reindeer  gloves  as  I  ran  down- 
stairs, jumped  on  to  my  bicycle,  and  was  half-way 
down  the  avenue,  before  old  Rodgers  had  recovered 


A  Question  of  Conscience         335 

his  breath,  temporarily  taken  by  the  haste  with 
which  he  had  answered  my  pealing  bell. 

"By  dint  of  hard  riding,  I  got  into  the  station 
just  in  time  to  fling  my  bicycle  to  a  porter,  and 
leap  into  the  guard's  van  of  the  already  moving 
train. 

"At  the  first  stop,  I  went  along,  and  found  Mrs. 
Mallory,  alone  and  melancholy,  in  an  empty  com- 
partment. Her  surprise  and  pleasure  at  sight  of 
mc,  seemed  ample  reward.  She  pressed  my  hand, 
in  genuine  delight  and  gratitude. 

"'I  could  n't  let  you  go  alone,'  I  said.  Then,  as 
I  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  something  —  it  may 
have  been  her  own  dainty  best  attire — made  me 
suddenly  conscious  of  the  shortness  of  my  service- 
able skirt,  and  the  roughness  of  my  tweed.  'So 
I  am  coming  with  you,  after  all,'  I  added;  'unless 
you  think  me  too  countrified,  in  this  get-up;  and 
will  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  me  in  town ! ' 

"  Mrs.  Mallory  enveloped  me,  thick  boots  and  all, 
in  grateful  smiles. 

'"Oh,  of  course  7iot."  she  said.  'Dear  Mrs. 
Rivers!     Of  course  not!     You  are  quite  too  kind!' 

"Now,  will  you  believe  it,  David?  Weeks  after- 
wards she  came  to  me  and  said  there  was  something 
she  must  tell  me,  as  it  was  hindering  her  in  her 
prayers,  and  she  could  not  enjoy  'fully  restored 


33^        The  Following  of  the  Star 

communion,'  until  she  had  confessed  it,  and  thus 
relieved  her  mind. 

"I  thought  the  dear  lady  must,  at  the  very- 
least,  have  forged  my  signature  to  a  cheque.  I 
sat  tight,  and  told  her  to  proceed.  She  there- 
upon reminded  me  of  that  October  morning, 
and  said  that  she  had  thought  my  clothes  coun- 
trified, and  had  felt  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  me 
in  town. 

"Oh,  David,  can  you  understand  how  it  hurt? 
When  one  had  given  up  the  day,  and  raced  to  the 
station,  and  done  it  all  to  help  her  in  her  trouble. 
It  was  not  so  much  that  she  had  noticed  that 
which  was  an  obvious  fact.  It  was  the  pettiness 
of  mind  which  could  dwell  on  it  for  weeks,  and 
then  wound  the  friend  who  had  tried  to  be  kind 
to  her,  by  bringing  it  up,  and  explaining  it. 

"  I  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  absolutely  at  a 
loss  what  to  reply.  At  last  I  said:  'I  am  very 
sorry,  Mrs.  Mallory.  But  had  I  stopped,  on  that 
morning,  to  change  into  town  clothes,  I  could 
not  have  caught  your  train.' 

" '  Oh,  I  know! '  she  cried,  with  protesting  hands. 
'  It  did  not  matter  at  all.  It  is  only  that  I  felt  I 
had  not  been  absolutely  truthful. ' 

"Now,  David — you,  who  are  by  profession  a 
guide  of  doubting  souls,   an  expounder  of  pro- 


A  Question  of  Conscience         337 

blems  of  casuistry,  a  discemer  of  the  thoughts  and 
intents  of  the  heart — will  you  give  me  a  pro- 
nouncement on  this  question?  In  itself  it  may 
be  a  small  matter;  but  it  serves  to  illustrate  a 
larger  problem. 

"Which  was  the  greater  sin  in  Mrs.  IMallor}^:  to 
have  lapsed  for  a  moment  from  absolute  truthful- 
ness; or,  to  wound  deliberately  a  friend  who  had 
tried  to  be  kind  to  her?  Am  I  right  in  saying  that 
such  an  episode  is  the  outcome  of  the  workings  of 
a  morbid  conscience?     It  is  but  one  of  many. 

"I  am  often  tempted  to  regret  my  good  old 
Chappie,  though  she  was  not  a  Bible  student, 
had  not  a  halo  of  fluffy  flaxen  hair,  and  never 
talked,  with  clasped  hands,  of  the  perfections 
of  departed  Philips.  I  am  afraid  Chappie  used 
to  lie  with  amazing  readiness;  but  always  in 
order  to  please  one,  or  to  say  what  she  con- 
sidered the  right  thing. 

"By  the  way.  Chappie  and  Mr.  Inglestry  dined 
here  the  other  night.  Whenever  I  see  them, 
David,  I  am  reminded  of  how  we  laughed  in  the 
luncheon-car,  on  our  wedding-day,  over  having 
left  Chappie  at  the  church,  with  two  strings  to 
her  bow.  I  remember  you  said:  'Two  beaux 
to  her  string'  more  exactly  described  the  situa- 
tion; a  pun  for  which  I  should  have  pinched  you, 


338        The  Following  of  the  Star 

had  my  spirits  on  that  morning  been  as  exuber- 
ant as  yours.  Poor  old  Inglestry  does  not  look 
as  well  as  he  used  to  do.  There  may  be  a  chance 
for  god-papa,  yet ! 

"What  an  epistle!  And  it  seems  so  full  of 
trivialities,  as  compared  with  the  deep  interest 
of  yours.  But  it  is  not  given  unto  us  all  to 
build  churches.  Some  of  us  can  only  build 
cottages — humble  little  four-roomed  places,  with 
thatched  roof  and  anxious  windows.  I  try  to 
cultivate  a  Httle  garden  in  front  of  mine,  full  of 
fragrant  gifts  and  graces.  But,  just  as  I  think 
I  have  obtained  some  promise  of  bloom  and 
beauty,  Mrs.  Mallory  annoys  me,  or  something 
else  goes  wrong,  and  my  quick  temper,  like  your 
early  hippopotamus,  dances  a  devastating  cake- 
walk  in  the  garden  of  my  best  intentions,  and 
tramples  down  my  oleanders. 

"  Mrs.  Mallory  spends  most  of  her  time  building 
a  mausoleum  to  the  memory  of  the  Rev.  Philip. 
Just  now,  she  is  gilding  the  dome.  I  get  so  tired 
of  hearing  of  Philip's  perfections.  It  almost 
tempts  me  to  retaliate  by  suddenly  beginning  to 
talk  about  you.  It  would  be  good  for  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory to  realise  that  she  is  not  the  only  person  in  the 
world  who  has  married  a  missionary,  and  lost  him. 


A  Question  of  Conscience         339 

However,  in  that  case,  my  elaborate  parrying  of 
many  questions  would  all  be  so  much  time  wasted. 
Besides,  she  would  never  understand  you  and  me, 
and  our — friendship. 

"When  the  late  Philip  proposed  to  her,  he  held 
her  hand  for  an  hour  in  blissful  silence,  after  she 
liad  murmured  '  yes' ;  then,  bent  over  her  and  asked 
whether  she  took  sugar  in  her  tea;  because,  if  she 
did,  they  must  take  some  out  with  them;  it  was 
difficult  to  obtain  in  the  place  to  which  they 
were  going!  Philip  was  evidently  a  domesticated 
man.  I  should  have  screamed,  long  before  the 
hour  of  silence  was  up;  and  flatly  refused  to 
go  to  any  country  where  I  could  not  buy  sugar 
at  a  moment's  notice! 

"Oh,  David,  I  must  stop!  You  will  consider 
this  flippant.  But  Uncle  Falcon  enjoys  the  joke. 
He  is  looking  more  amused  than  I  have  seen  him 
look  for  many  months.  He  would  have  liked 
to  see  Philip  trying  to  hold  my  hand.  Uncle 
Falcon's  amber  eyes  are  twinkling. 

"Talking  of  cottages,  I  was  inspecting  ihc 
schools  the  other  day,  and  the  children  recited 
'po-tray'  for  my  benefit.  They  all  remarked 
together,  in  a  sing-song  nasal  chant:  'The  cottage 
was  a  thatched  one,'  with  many  additional 
emphatic  though  unimportant  facts.     I  suggested. 


340        The  Following  of  the  Star 

when  it  was  over,  that '  The  cottage  was  a  thatched 
one,'  might  better  render  the  meaning  of  the 
poet.  But  the  schoolmaster  and  his  wife  re- 
garded me  doubtfully;  saying,  that  in  the  whole 
of  their  long  experience  it  had  always  been: 
'The  cottage  was  a  thatched  one.'  I  hastily 
agreed  that  undoubtedly  a  long  established  pre- 
cedent must  never  be  disregarded;  and  what 
has  been  should  ever — in  this  good  conservative 
land  of  ours — for  that  reason,  if  for  no  other, 
continue  to  be.  Then  I  turned  my  attention  to 
the  drawing  and  needlework. 

"  How  my  old  set  would  laugh  if  they  knew  how 
often  I  spend  a  morning  inspecting  the  schools. 
But  many  things  in  my  daily  life  now  would  be 
incomprehensible  to  them  and,  therefore,  amusing. 

"How  much  depends  upon  one's  point  of 
view.  I  jumped  upon  a  little  lady  in  the  train 
the  other  day,  travelling  up  to  town  for  a  day's 
shopping,  for  saying  with  a  weary  sigh  and 
dismal  countenance,  that  she  was  'facing  Christ- 
mas'! Fancy  approaching  the  time  of  gifts  and 
gladness  and  thought  for  others,  in  such  a  spirit! 
I  told  her  the  best  'facing'  for  her  to  do,  would  be 
to  'right  about  face'  and  go  home  to  bed,  and 
remain  there  until  Christmas  festivities  were 
over!     She  pulled  her  furs  more  closely  around 


A  Question  of  Conscience         341 

her,  and  tapped  my  arm  with  the  jewelled  pencil- 
case  with  which  she  was  writing  her  list  of  gifts. 
'My  dear  Diana,'  she  said,  'you  have  always 
been  so  fatiguingly  energetic'  This  gave  me 
food  for  thought.  I  suppose  even  the  sight  of 
the  energy  of  others  is  a  weariness  to  easily  ex- 
hausted people.  A  favourite  remark  of  Chappie's 
used  to  be,  that  the  way  I  came  down  to  breakfast 
tired  her  out  for  the  day. 

"Well,  as  I  remarked  before,  I  must  close  this 
long  epistle.  I  am  becoming  quite  Pauline  in 
my  postscripts.  As  I  think  of  it  on  its  way  to 
you,  I  shall  have  cause  to  recite  with  compunc- 
tion: 'The  letter  was — a  long  one!' 

"Good-bye,  my  dear  David. 

"May  all  best  blessings  rest  upon  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Star,  and  upon  your  ministry  therein. 
"Affectionately  yours, 

Diana  Rivers." 

"P.  S.  Don't  you  think  you  might  reUeve  my 
natural  wifely  anxiety,  by  giving  me  a  few  details 
as  to  your  general  health?  And  please  remember 
to  answer  my  question  about  Mrs.  Mallor>-'s 
conscience." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

David's  pronouncement 

A  A /HEN  David's  reply  arrived,  in  due  course, 
'  »       he  went  straight  to  the  point  in  this  matter 
of  Mrs.  Mallory's  conscience,  with  a  directness 
which  fully  satisfied  Diana. 

"It  is  impossible,"  wrote  David,  "to  give  an 
opinion  as  to  which  was  the  greater  or  lesser 
wrong,  when  your  friend  had  already  advanced 
so  far  down  a  crooked  way.  Undoubtedly  it 
was  a  difficult  moment  for  her  in  the  railway 
carriage,  as  in  all  probability  her  own  critical 
thought  gave  you  the  mental  suggestion  of  not 
being  suitably  got  up  for  town.  But  you,  in 
similar  circumstances,  would  have  said:  'Why, 
what  does  the  fact  of  your  clothes  being  countri- 
fied matter,  compared  to  the  immense  comfort 
of  having  you  with  me.  And  if  all  the  people 
we  meet,  could  know  how  kind  you  have  been 

and   how  you    raced    to    the  train,   they  would 

342 


David's  Pronouncement  343 

not  give  a  second  thought  to  what  you  happen 
to   be   wearing. ' 

"But  a  straightforward  answer,  such  as  you 
would  have  given,  would  not  be  a  natural  instinct 
to  a  mind  habitually  fencing  and  hedging,  and 
shifting  away  from  facing  facts. 

"Personally,  on  the  difficult  question  of  con- 
fession of  wrong-doing,  I  hold  this:  that  if  con- 
fession rights  a  wrong,  and  is  clearly  to  the 
advantage  of  the  person  to  whom  it  is  made, 
then  confession  is  indeed  an  obvious  duty,  which 
should  be  faced  and  performed  without  delay. 

"But — if  confession  is  merely  the  method 
adopted  by  a  stricken  and  convicted  conscience, 
for  shifting  the  burden  of  its  own  wTong-doing  by 
imparting  to  another  the  knowledge  of  that 
wrong,  especially  if  that  knowledge  will  cause 
pain,  disappointment,  or  perplexity  to  an  inno- 
cent heart — then  I  hold  it  to  be  both  morbid 
and  useless. 

"Mrs.  Mallor>'  did  not  undo  the  fact  of  her 
lapse  from  absolute  truthfulness  by  telling  you 
of  it,  in  a  way  which  she  must  have  known  would 
cause  you  both  mortification  and  pain.  She 
simply  added  to  the  sin  of  untruthfulness,  the 
sins  of  ingratitude,  and  of  inconsi deration  for 
the   feelings   of   another.     Had   she   forged   your 


344        The  Following  of  the  Star 

signature  to  a  cheque,  she  would  have  been  right 
to  confess  it;  because  confession  would  have  been 
a  necessary  step  toward  restitution.  All  con- 
fession which  rights  a  wrong,  is  legitimate  and 
essential.  Confession  which  merely  lays  a  burden 
upon  another,  is  morbid  and  selfish.  The  lone- 
liness of  a  conscience  under  conviction,  bearing 
in  solitude  the  burden  of  acute  remembrance 
of  past  sins,  is  a  part  of  the  punishment  those 
sins  deserve.  Then — into  that  loneliness — there 
comes  the  comfort  of  the  thought:  'He  Who 
knows  all,  understands  all;  and  He  Who  knows 
and  understands  already,  may  be  fully  told,  all.' 
And,  no  sooner  is  that  complete  confession  made, 
than  there  breaks  the  radiance  of  the  promise, 
shining  star-like  in  the  darkness  of  despair:  'If 
we  confess  our  sins.  He  is  faithful  and  just  to 
forgive  us  our  sins,  and  to  cleanse  us  from  all 
unrighteousness. '  Mrs.  Mallory  could  thus  have 
got  back  into  the  light  of  restored  communion, 
without  ever  mentioning  the  matter  to  you. 

"But  this  kind  of  mind  is  so  difficult  to  help, 
because  its  lapses  are  due  to  a  lack  of  straight- 
forward directness,  which  would  be,  to  another 
mind,  not  an  effort,  but  an  instinct. 

"Such  people  stand  in  a  chronic  state  of  inde- 
cision, at  perpetual  cross-roads;  and  are  just  as 


David's  Pronouncement  345 

likely  to  take  the  wrong  road,  as  the  right;  then, 
after  having  travelled  far  along  that  road,  are 
pulled  up  by  complications  arising,  not  so  much 
from  the  predicament  of  the  moment,  as  from 
the  fact  that  they  vacillated  into  the  wrong  path 
at  the  crucial  time  when  they  stood  hesitating. 
They  need  Elijah's  clarion  call  to  the  people  of 
Israel:  'How  long  halt  ye  between  two  opinions? 
If  the  Lord  be  God,  follow  Him;  but,  if  Baal,  then 
follow  him' — honest  idolatry  being  better  than 
vacillating  indecision. 

"This  species  of  mental  lameness  reminds  me 
of  a  man  I  knew  at  college,  who  had  one  leg 
longer  than  the  other.  He  was  no  good  at  all 
at  racing  on  the  straight;  but,  round  the  grass 
plot  in  the  centre  of  one  of  our  courts,  no  one 
could  beat  him.  He  used  to  put  his  short  leg 
inside,  and  his  long  leg  out,  and  round  and  round 
he  would  sprint,  like  a  lamplighter.  People  who 
halt  between  two  opinions  always  argue  in  a 
circle,  but  never  arrive  at  any  definite  conclu- 
sion. They  are  no  good  on  the  straight.  They 
find  themselves  back  where  they  originally 
started.     They  get  no  farther. 

"jMrs.  Mallory  should  take  her  place  in  the 
Pool  of  Bethcsda  among  the  blind,  and  the  halt, 
and    the    withered.     She    should    get    her    eyes 


34^        The  Following  of  the  Star 

opened  to  a  larger  outlook  on  life;  her  crooked 
walk  made  straight;  and  her  withered  sensi- 
bilities quickened  into  fresh  life.  Then  she  would 
soon  cease  to  try  you  with  her  morbid  conscience. 
"  Mrs.  Mallory  should  give  up  defacing  her  Bible 
with  the  ink  of  her  own  ideas  or  the  ideas  of  others. 
Human  conceptions,  however  helpful,  should  not 
find  a  permanent  place,  even  in  your  own  indi- 
vidual copy  of  the  Word  of  God.  The  particular 
line  of  truth  they  emphasised,  may  have  been  the 
teaching  intended  for  that  particular  hour  of  study. 
But,  every  time  you  turn  to  a  passage,  you  may 
expect  fresh  light,  and  a  newly  revealed  line  of 
thought.  If  your  eye  is  at  once  arrested  by  notes 
and  comments,  or  even  by  the  imderlining  of 
special  words,  your  mind  slips  into  the  groove  of 
a  past  meditation;  thus  the  liberty  of  fresh  light, 
and  the  free  course  of  fresh  revelation,  are  checked 
and  impeded.  Do  not  crowd  into  the  sacred 
sanctuary  of  the  Word,  ideas  which  may  most 
helpfully  be  garnered  in  the  classroom  of  your 
notebook.  Remember  that  the  Bible  differs  from 
all  human  literature  in  this:  that  it  is  a  living,  vital 
thing — ever  new,  ever  replete  with  fresh  surprises. 
The  living  Spirit  illumines  its  every  line,  the 
living  Word  meets  you  in  its  pages.  As  in  the 
glades  of  Eden,  when  the  mysterious  evening  wind 


David's  Pronouncement  347 

(ruach)  stirred  the  leaves  of  the  trees,  making  of 
that  hour  '  the  cool  of  the  day ' — you  can  say,  as 
the  wind  of  the  Spirit  breathes  upon  your  passage 
through  the  Word :  '  I  hear  the  voice  of  the  Lord 
God  walking  in  the  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  day.' 
Then,  passing  down  its  quiet  glades,  straightway, 
face  to  face,  you  meet  your  Lord.  No  unconfessed 
sin  can  remain  hidden  in  the  light  of  that  meeting. 
No  conscience  can  continue  morbid  if  illumined, 
cleansed,  adjusted,  by  habitual  study  of  the  Word. 

"There!  I  have  calmly  given  my  view  of  the 
matter,  as  being  '  by  profession,  a  guide  of  doubt- 
ing souls,  an  expounder  of  problems  of  casuistry,' 
and  all  the  other  excellent  things  it  pleased  you 
to  call  me. 

"Now — as  a  man — allow  me  the  relief  of 
simply  stating,  that  I  should  dearly  like  to  pound 
Mrs.  Mallory  to  pulp,  for  her  utter  ingratitude 
to  you." 

This  sudden  explosion  on  David's  part,  brought 
out  delighted  dimples  in  Diana's  cheeks;  and, 
thereafter,  whenever  Mrs.  Mallory  proved  trying, 
she  found  consolation  in  whispering  to  herself: 
"  David — my  good,  saintly  David — would  dearly 
like  to  pound  her  to  pulp!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

WHAT  DAVID  WONDERED 

/^NE  more  episode,  culled  from  the  year's 
^^  correspondence,  shows  the  intimacy,  con- 
stantly bordering  on  the  personal,  which  grew 
up  between  David  and  Diana. 

He  had  mentioned  in  one  of  his  letters,  that 
among  a  package  of  illustrated  papers  which  had 
reached  his  station,  he  had  found  one  in  which 
was  an  excellent  photograph  of  Diana,  passing 
down  the  steps  of  the  Town  Hall,  to  her  motor, 
after  opening  a  bazaar  at  Eversleigh. 

David  had  written  with  so  much  pleasure  of 
this,  that  Diana,  realising  he  had  no  portrait  of 
her,  and  knowing  how  her  heart  yearned  for  one 
of  him,  went  up  to  town,  and  was  photographed 
especially  for  him. 

When  the  portrait  arrived,  and  her  own  face 

looked  out  at  her  from  the  silver  wrappings,  she 

was   startled   by   its   expression.     It   was   not   a 

look  she  ever  saw  in  her  mirror.     The  depth  of 

348 


What  David  Wondered  349 

tenderness  in  the  eyes,  the  soft  wistfuhiess  of 
the  mouth,  were  a  revelation  of  her  own  heart 
to  Diana.  She  had  been  thinking  of  her  husband, 
when  the  camera  unexpectedly  opened  its  eye 
upon  her.  The  clever  artist  had  sacrificed  minor 
details  of  arrangement,  in  order  to  take  her  una- 
wares before  a  photographic  expression  closed 
the  gates  upon  the  luminous  beauty  of  her  soul, 

Diana  hurried  the  picture  back  into  its  wrap- 
pings. It  had  been  taken  for  David.  To  David 
it  must  go;  and  go  immediately,  if  it  were  to  go 
at  all.  If  it  did  not  go  at  once  to  David,  it  would 
go  into  the  fire. 

It  went  to  David. 

With  it  went  a  letter. 

"My  dear  David, — I  am  much  amused  that 
you  should  have  come  across  a  picture  of  me 
in  an  illustrated  paper.  I  did  not  see  it  myself; 
but  I  gather  from  your  description,  that  it  must 
have  been  taken  as  I  was  leaving  the  Town  Hall 
after  the  function  of  which  I  told  you  in  Septem- 
ber. Fancy  you  being  able  to  recognise  the 
motor  and  the  men.  I  remember  having  to  stand 
for  a  minute  at  the  top  of  the  long  flight  of  steps, 
while  some  of  the  members  of  the  committee,  who 
had   organised   the    bazaar,    made    their   adieux. 


350        The  Following  of  the  Star 

I  always  hate  all  the  hand-shaking  on  these  oc- 
casions. I  suppose  you  would  enjoy  it,  David. 
To  you,  each  hand  would  mean  an  interesting 
personality  behind  it.  I  am  afraid  to  me  it  only 
means  something  unpleasantly  hot,  and  imneces- 
sarily  literal  in  the  meaning  it  gives  to  'hand- 
shake. *  Don't  you  know  a  certain  style  of  story 
which  says,  in  crucial  moments  between  the  hero 
and  the  heroine:  'He  wrung  her  hand  and  left 
her?'  They  always  wring  your  hand — a  most 
painful  process — when  you  open  bazaars,  but 
they  don't  leave  you!  You  are  constrained  at 
last  to  flee  to  your  motor. 

"  'The  fellow  in  the  topper'" — Diana  paused 
here  to  refer  to  David's  letter,  then  continued 
writing,  a  little  smile  of  amusement  curving  the 
comers  of  her  mouth, — "The  'good-looking  fellow 
in  the  topper '  who  was  being  '  so  very  attentive ' 
to  me,  and  'apparently  enjoying  himself  on  the 
steps,'  is  our  member.  His  wife,  a  charming 
woman,  is  a  great  friend  of  mine.  She  should 
appear  just  behind  us.  The  mayoress  had  pre- 
sented me  with  the  bouquet  he  was  holding  for 
me.  I  foisted  it  upon  the  poor  man  because, 
personally,  I  hate  carrying  bouquets.  I  daresay 
it  had  the  effect  in  the  snapshot  of  making  him 
look  'a  festive  chap.'     But  he  was  not  enjoying 


What  David  Wondered  351 

himself,   any   more   than   I   was.     We   had   both 
just  shaken  hands  with  the  Mayor! 

"It  seems  so  funny  to  think  that  a  reproduction 
of  this  scene  should  have  found  its  way  to  you  in 
Central  Africa;  and  I  am  much  gratified  that  you 
considered  it  worth  framing,  and  hanging  up  in 
your  hut. 

"I  am  glad  you  thought  me  looking  so  like 
myself.  I  don't  think  I  am  much  given  to  looking 
like  other  people!  Unlike  a  little  lady  in  this 
neighbourhood  who  is  never  herself,  but  always 
some  one  else,  and  not  the  same  person  for  many 
weeks  together.  It  is  one  of  our  mild  amusements 
to  wonder  who  she  will  be  ne.xt.  She  had  a 
phase  of  being  me  once,  with  a  bunch  of  artificial 
violets  on  her  muff! 

"  But,  to  return  to  the  picture.  It  has  occurred 
to  me  that,  as  you  were  so  pleased  with  it,  you 
might  like  a  better.  It  is  not  right,  my  dear 
David,  that  the  only  likeness  you  possess  of  your 
wife,  should  be  a  snapshot  in  a  penny  paper. 
So,  by  this  mail,  I  send  a  proper  photograph, 
taken  the  other  day  on  purpose  for  you.  Are 
you  not  flattered,   sir?" 

The  letter  then  went  on  to  speak  of  other  things; 
but,   before  signing  her  name,    Diana  drew   the 


352        The  Following  of  the  Star 

photograph  once  more  from  its  wrappings,  and 
looked  at  it,  shyly,  wistfully.  She  could  not 
help  seeing  that  it  was  very  beautiful.  She 
could  not  help  knowing  that  her  heart  was  in 
her  eyes.  What  would  they  say  to  David — those 
tender,  yearning  eyes?  What  might  they  not 
lead  David  to   say  to  her? 

At  last  his  answer  came. 

"How  kind  of  you  to  send  me  this  beautiful 
large  photograph,  and  very  good  of  you  to  have 
had  it  taken  expressly  for  me.  I  fear  you  will 
think  me  an  ungrateful  fellow,  if  I  confess  that 
I  still  prefer  the  snapshot,  and  cannot  bring 
myself  to  take  it  from  its  frame. 

"This  is  lovely  beyond  words,  of  course;  and 
immensely  artistic;  but  it  gives  me  more  the 
feeling  of  an  extremely  beautiful  fancy  picture. 
You  see,  I  never  saw  you  look  as  you  are  looking 
in  this  portrait,  whereas  the  Town  Hall  picture 
is  you,  exactly  as  I  remember  you  always ;  tall  and 
gay,  and  immensely  enjoying  life,  and  life's  best 
gifts. 

"Conscious  of  ingratitude,  I  put  the  portrait  up 
on  the  wall  of  my  hut;  but  I  could  not  leave  it 
there ;  and  it  is  now  safely  locked  away  in  my  desk. 


What  David  Wondered  353 

"I  could  not  leave  it  there  for  two  reasons: 
its  effect  on  myself;  and  its  effect  on  the  natives. 

"Reason  No.  i.  Its  effect  on  myself:  I  could 
not  work,  while  it  was  where  I  could  see  it.  It 
set  me  wondering;  and  a  fellow  is  lost  if  he  once 
starts  wondering,  out  in  the  wilds  of  Central 
Africa. 

"Reason  No.  2.  Its  effect  on  the  natives: 
They  all  began  worshipping  it.  It  became  a 
second  goddess  fallen  from  heaven,  like  unto 
your  namesake  at  Ephesus.  They  had  seen  a 
Madonna,  brought  here  by  an  artist  travelling 
through.  They  took  this  for  a  Ivladonna — and 
well  they  might.  They  asked:  Where  was  the 
little  child?  I  said:  there  was  no  little  child. 
Yet  still  they  worshipped.  So  I  placed  it  under 
lock  and  key." 

Diana  laid  her  head  down  on  the  letter,  after 
reading  these  words.  When  she  lifted  it,  the 
page  was  blotted  with  her  tears.  Sometimes 
her  punishment  seemed  heavier  than  she  could 
bear. 

She  took  up  her  pen,  and  added  a  postscript 
to  the  letter  she  was  just  mailing. 

"Dear    David,    what    did    you    wonder?     Tell 

me." 
23 


354        The  Following  of  the  Star 

And    David,    with    white    set    face,  wrote   in 

answer:  "I  wondered  who "  then  started  up, 

and  tore  the  sheet  to  fragments;  threw  prudence 
to  the  winds;  went  out  and  beat  his  way  for 
hours  through  the  swampy  jungle,  fighting  the 
long  grasses,  and  the  evil  clinging  tendrils  of 
poisonous  growths. 

When  he  regained  his  hut,  worn  out  and  ex- 
hausted, the  stars  were  pricking  in  golden  pin- 
points through  the  sky ;  one  planet  hung  luminous 
and  low  on  the  horizon. 

David  stood  in  his  doorway,  trying  to  gain  a 
little  refreshment  from  the  night  wind,  blowing 
up  from  the  river. 

Suddenly  he  laughed,  long  and  wildly;  then 
caught  his  breath,  in  a  short  dry  sob. 

" My  God, "  he  said,  "I  have  so  little!  Let  me 
keep  to  the  end  the  one  thing  in  my  wife  which 
I  possess:  my  faith  in  her." 

Then  he  passed  into  the  hut,  closing  the  door; 
groped  his  way  to  the  rough  wooden  table; 
lighted  a  lamp,  and  sitting  down  at  his  desk, 
drew  Diana's  portrait  from  its  silver  wrappings; 
placed  it  in  front  of  him,  and  sat  long,  looking 
at  it  intently;  his  head  in  his  hands. 

At  last  he  laid  his  hot  mouth  on  those  sweet 
pictured  lips,  parted  in  wistful  tenderness,  as  if 


What  David  Wondered  355 

offering  much  to  one  at  whom  the  grey  eyes  looked 
with  love  unmistakable. 

Then  he  laid  it  away,  out  of  sight,  and  rewrote 
his  letter. 

"I  wondered,"  he  said,  "at  the  great  kindness 
which  took  so  much  trouble,  only  for  me." 


CHAPTER   XXX 

RESURGAM 

"  RiVERSCOURT, 

"Feast  of  Epiphany, 
"My   dear   David, — A   wonderful   thing   has 
happened;  and  I  am  so  glad  it  happened  on  the 
Feast   of   the   Star,   which  is   also — as  you   will 
remember — our  wedding-day. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  of  it,  David,  because  it 
is  one  of  those  utterly  unexpected,  beautiful 
happenings,  which,  on  the  rare  occasions  when 
they  do  occiir,  make  one  feel  that,  after  all, 
nothing  is  irrevocably  hopeless,  even  in  this  poor 
world  of  ours,  where  mistakes  usually  appear 
to  be  irretrievable,  and  where  wisdom,  bought 
too  dearly  and  learned  too  late,  can  bring  forth 
no  fruit  save  in  the  mournful  land  of  might- 
have-beens. 

"Last  year,  this  day  was  one  of  frost  and  sun- 
shine. This  year,  the  little  Hampshire  farms  and 
homesteads,  all  along  the  railway,  cannot  have 
looked  either  cosy  or  picturesque ;  and  the  distant 

356 


Rcsurgam  357 

line  of  undulating  hills  must  have  been  completely 
hidden  by  fog  and  mist.  It  has  sleeted,  off  and 
on,  during  the  whole  morning — a  seasonable  at- 
tempt at  snow  somewhere  up  above,  frustrated 
by  the  unseasonable  murky  dampness  of  the 
earth,  below.  I  wonder  how  often  God's  pur- 
poses for  us,  of  pure  white  beauty,  are  prevented 
by  the  murk  and  mist  of  our  own  mental  atmos- 
phere. This  sounds  like  moralising,  and  so  it 
is!  I  thought  it  out,  in  Bramblcdene  church 
this  morning,  while  god-papa  was  enjoying 
himself  in  the  pulpit. 

"He  took  for  his  text:  'They  departed  into 
their  ov^ti  country  another  way.'  He  displayed 
a  vast  amount  of  geographical  information, 
concerning  the  various  ways  by  which  the  three 
Wise  Men — oh,  David,  there  were  three  all  through 
the  sermon;  and  I  felt  so  wrathful,  because  Mrs. 
Smith's  back  view — I  mean  my  back  view  of 
Mrs.  Smith — was  so  smugly  complacent,  and  she 
nodded  her  head  in  approval,  every  time  god- 
papa  said  'three.'  I  could  have  hurled  my  Bible, 
open  at  Matthew  ii.  at  god-papa;  and  an  aged 
and  mouldy  copy  of  Hymns  Ancient  and  Modem, 
at  Mrs.  Smith;  a  performance  which  would  have 
carried  on,  in  a  less  helpful  way,  your  particular 
faculty    for    making    that    congregation    sit    up. 


35^        The  Following  of  the  Star 

This  desire  on  m}''  part  will  possibly  lead  you  to 
conclude,  my  dear  David,  that  your  wife  was 
giving  way  to  an  unchristian  temper.  But  she 
was  not.  She  was  simply  experiencing  a  wifely 
pride  in  your  sermons,  and  a  quite  justifiable 
desire  that  ever}'  word  they  contained  should 
be  imderstood  and  corroborated.  Other  ladies 
have  hurled  stools  in  defence  of  the  faith,  and 
thereby  taken  their  place  in  the  annals  of  history. 
Why  should  not  your  wife  hurl  a  very,  very  old 
copy  of  Ancient  and  Modern  Hymns  and  Tunes, 
and  thus  become  famous? 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  god-papa  was  being 
very  learned  as  to  the  probable  route  by  which 
the  Wise  Men  returned  home,  though  he  had 
already  told  us  it  was  impossible  to  be  at  all 
certain  as  to  the  locality  from  which  they  started. 
This  struck  me  as  being  so  very  like  the  good 
people  who  tell  us  with  authoritative  detail 
where  we  are  going,  although  they  know  not 
whence  we  came. 

"This  thought  unhitched  my  mind  from  god- 
papa's  rolling  chariot  of  eloquence,  which  went 
lumbering  on  along  a  highroad  of  Eastern  lore 
and  geographical  research,  regardless  of  the  fact 
that  my  little  mental  wheel  had  trundled  gaily 
off  on  its  own,  down  a  side  alley. 


Resurgam  359 

"This  tempting  glade,  my  dear  David,  alluring 
to  a  mind  perplexed  by  the  dust  of  god-papa's 
highway,  was  an  imaginary  sermon,  preached  by 
you,  on  this  self -same  text. 

"I  seemed  to  know  just  how  you  would  explain 
all  the  different  routes  by  which  souls  reach  home ; 
and  how  sometimes  that  '  other  way '  along  which 
they  are  led  is  a  way  other  than  they  would  have 
chosen,  and  difficult  to  be  understood,  until  the 
end  makes  all  things  clear.  In  the  course  of  this 
eloquent  and  really  helpful  sermon  of  yours, 
occurred  that  idea  about  the  snow,  which  caused 
me  to  digress  at  the  beginning  of  my  letter,  in 
order  to  tell  you  I  had  been  to  Brambledene. 

"The  little  church  looked  very  much  as  it  did 
last  year;  heavy  with  evergreen,  and  gay  with 
flock  texts,  and  banners.  The  font  looked  like 
a  stout  person,  suffering  from  sore  throat.  It 
was  carefully  swathed  in  cotton-wool  and  red 
flannel.  The  camphorated  oil,  one  took  for 
granted.  I  sat  in  my  old  corner  against  the 
pillar.  Sarah  was  in  church.  I  had  a  feeling 
that,  somehow,  you  were  connected  with  the  fact 
of  her  presence  there.  We  gave  each  other  a 
smile  of  sympathy.  Wo  both  owe  much  to  you, 
David. 

"But  you  will  think  I  am  never  coming  to  the 


36o        The  Following  of  the  Star 

point  of  my  letter — the  wonderful  thing  which 
has  happened,  I  believe  I  keep  postponing  it, 
because  it  means  so  much  to  me;  I  hardly  know 
how  to  write  it;  and  yet  I  am  longing  to  tell  you. 

"Well — after  luncheon  I  felt  moved,  notwith- 
standing the  weather,  to  go  for  a  tramp  in  the 
park.  There  are  days  when  I  cannot  possibly 
remain  within  doors.  My  holiday  children  were 
having  a  romp  upstairs,  in  charge  of  Mrs.  Mallory. 

"I  happened  to  go  out  through  the  hall;  and, 
just  as  I  opened  the  door,  a  station  fly  drove  up, 
and  the  solitary  occupant  hurriedly  alighted.  I 
should  have  made  good  my  retreat,  leaving  this 
unexpected  visitor  to  be  dealt  with  by  Rodgers, 
had  I  not  caught  sight  of  her  face,  and  been 
thereby  arrested  on  the  spot.  It  was  the  sweetest, 
saddest,  most  gently  lovely  face;  and  she  was 
a  young  widow,  in  very  deep  mourning. 

'Is  this  Riverscourt,'  she  asked,  as  I  came 
forward;  'and  can  I  speak,  at  once,  to  Mrs. 
Rivers?' 

"I  brought  her  in.  There  was  something 
strangely  familiar  about  the  soft  eyes  and  winning 
smile,  though  I  felt  quite  sure  I  had  never  seen 
her  before. 

"I  placed  her  on  the  couch,  in  the  drawing- 
room,  where  you  first  saw  Chappie;  and  turned 


Res  u  roam  361 


my  attention  to  the  fire,  while  she  battled  with 
an  almost  overwhelming  emotion. 

"Then  she  said : '  Mrs.  Rivers,  I  am  a  missionary-. 
I  have  just  returned  from  abroad.  I  only  reached 
London  this  morning.  My  little  girl  had  to  be 
sent  on,  nearly  a  year  ago.  I  have  just  been 
living  for  the  hour  when  I  should  see  her  again. 
They  tell  me,  you,  in  your  great  kindness,  have 
had  her  here  for  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  that 
she  is  here  still.  So  I  came  straight  on.  I  hope 
you  will  pardon  the  intrusion. ' 

"  'Intrusion!'  I  cried.  'Why,  how  could  it 
be  an  intrusion?  If  you  knew  what  it  means  to 
me  wheji  I  hear  of  any  of  these  bereft  little  boys 
and  girls  finding  their  parents  again!  But  we 
have  at  least  a  dozen  children  here  just  now. 
What  is  the  name  of  your  little  girl?' 

"  'Her  name  is  Eileen,'  said  the  gentle  voice, 
'but  we  always  call  her  "Little  Fairy".  ' 

"David,  my  heart  seemed  to  bound  into  my 
throat  and  stop  there! 

'Who — who  are  you?'  I  exclaimed. 

"The  young  widow  on  the  sofa  opened  her 
arms  with  an  unconscious  gesture  of  love  and 
longing. 

'I    am    Little    Fairy's    mummie,*    she    said 
simply. 


)62        The  Following^  of  the  Star 


£5 


"  'But — '  I  cried;  and  stopped.  I  suppose 
my  face  completed  the  unfinished  sentence. 

"  '  Oh,  yes, '  she  said,  '  I  had  forgotten  you  would 
know  of  the  telegram.  In  some  inexplicable  way 
it  got  changed  in  transit.  It  was  my  husband's 
death  it  should  have  announced,  not  mine.  I 
lost  him  very  suddenly,  just  as  we  were  almost 
due  to  leave  for  home.  I  did  not  wish  my  chil- 
dren to  be  told  until  my  return.  I  wanted  to  tell 
them  myself.' 

"I  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  a  message  to  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory  to  send  Little  Fairy  at  once  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Then  I  knelt  down  in  front  of  Fairy's 
mummie,  and  took  both  her  trembling  hands  in 
mine.  It  does  not  come  easy  to  me  to  be  demon- 
strative, David,  but  I  know  the  tears  were  running 
down  my  cheeks. 

"  'Oh,  you  don't  know  what  it  has  been!'  I 
said.  'To  think  of  you  as  dead  and  buried, 
thousands  of  miles  away;  and  to  hear  that  baby 
voice,  singing  in  joyous  confidence:  " Mummie 's 
tumming  home!"  And  the  little  mouth  kept  its 
kisses  so  loyally  for  you.  I  was  told  each  evening: 
"Not  my  mouf, — that's  only  for  Mummie!" 
I  used  to  think  I  jmist  tell  her.  Thank  God,  I 
didn't!     And  now ' 

"I    broke    off.     Little    Fairy's    mummie    was 


Resurgam  363 

sobbing  on  my  shoulder.  We  held  each  other, 
and  cried  together. 

"  'You  won't  leave  her  again?'  I  said. 

"  'Oh,  no,'  she  whispered,  'never,  never!  I 
also  have  two  little  sons  at  school  in  England. 
/  never  could  feel  it  right  to  be  parted  from  the 
children.     It    was    my    husband — who ' 

"Then  we  heard  a  little  voice,  singing  on  the 
stairs. 

"I  ran  out  to  the  hall. 

"That  sweet  baby,  in  a  white  frock  and  blue 
sash,  was  tripping  do^Ti  the  staircase.  Mrs. 
Mallory's  middle-class  instincts  had  rapidly 
made  her  tidy.  She  looked  a  little  picture  as 
she   came,  holding   by   the   dark  oak  banisters. 

"Mummie's — tumming — home!"  proclaimed 
the  joyous  voice — a  word  to  each  step.  She  saw 
me,  waiting  at  the  bottom;  and  threw  me  a 
golden    smile. 

"I  caught  her  in  my  arms.  I  couldn't  kiss 
her;  she  was  not  mine  to  kiss.  But  I  looked 
into  her  little  face  and  said :  '  Mummie  's  come 
home,    darling!     Mummie's  come  home!' 

"Then  I  ran  to  the  drawing-room.  I  had 
meant  to  put  her  down  at  the  door.  But,  David, 
I  could  n't!  I  carried  her  in,  and  put  her  straight 
into  her  mother's  arms.     I  saw  the  little  mouth, 


364        The  Following  of  the  Star 

so  carefully  guarded,  meet  the  living,  loving 
lips,  which  I  had  pictured  as  cold  and  dead. 

"Then  I  walked  over  to  the  window,  and  stood 
looking  out  at  the  sleet  and  drizzle,  the  leafless 
branches,  the  sodden  turf,  the  dank  cold  deadness 
of  all  things  without.  Ah,  what  did  they  matter, 
with  such  love,  such  bliss,  such  resurrection 
within ! 

"David,  I  have  always  said  I  did  not  like 
children.  For  years  I  have  derided  the  sacred 
obligation  of  motherhood.  I  have  often  declared 
that  nothing  would  induce  me,  under  any  circum- 
stances, to  undertake  it.  At  last,  by  my  own 
act,  I  have  put  myself  into  a  position  which 
makes  it  impossible  that  that  love,  that  tie,  that 
sweet  responsibility,  should  ever  be  mine.  I 
don't  say,  by  any  means,  that  I  wish  for  it;  but 
I  have  felt  lately  that  my  former  attitude  of  mind 
in  the  matter  was  wrong,  ignorant,  sinful. 

"And — oh,  how  can  I  make  my  meaning  plain — 
it  seemed  to  me  that  in  that  moment,  when  I 
put  that  little  child  into  those  waiting  arms, 
without  kissing  her  myself — I  expiated  that  mental 
sin.  I  shall  always  have  a  hungry  ache  at  my 
heart,  because  I  gave  Little  Fairy  up  without 
kissing  her;  but  that  very  hunger  means  conviction, 
confession,  and   penance.     I  shall  never  have  a 


Resurgam  365 

little  child  of  my  own;  but  I  have  experienced 
something  of  the  rapture  of  motherhood,  in 
sharing  in  this  meeting  between  my  little 
baby-girl,  and  the  mother  I  had  thought  dead. 

"And  now,  David,  I  will  tell  you  a  secret. 
Had  the  father  arrived  home,  with  the  awful 
news,  I  had  meant  to  ask  leave  to  adopt  Little 
Fairy.  But  you  see  I  am  not  intended  even  to 
have  other  people's  children  for  my  own. 

"After  a  while,  as  I  stood  at  the  window,  I 
heard  the  mother  say:  'Darling,  dear  father  has 
not  come  home.' 

"  'Oh,'  said  Fair>''s  contented  little  voice; 
asking  no  questions. 

"  'Darling,'  insisted  the  quiet  tones  of  the 
mother,  '  dear  father  has  gone  to  be  with  Jesus.  * 

"I  looked  round.  The  baby-face  was  earnest 
and  thoughtful.  She  lifted  great  questioning  eyes 
to  her  mother. 

"  'Oh,'  she  said.     'Did  Jesus  want  him?' 

"  'Yes,'  said  the  sweet  voice,  controlling  a 
sudden  tremor.  'Jesus  wanted  him.  So  wc  have 
lost  dear  father,  darling.' 

"Then  Fairy  knelt  up  on  her  mother's 
knee,  and  put  both  little  arms  round  her  mother's 
neck,  with  a  movement  of  unspeakable  tender- 
ness. 


366        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"  'But  we've  gotted  each  uwer,  Mummie,' 
she  said. 

"  Oh,  David,  we  \e  gotted  each  other  1  It  seemed 
just  everything  to  that  Httle  heart.  And  I 
beHeve  it  was  everything  to  the  mother,  too. 

"Now,  do  you  wonder  that  this  has  made  me 
feel  as  if  none  of  earth's  happenings,  however 
sad,  need  be  altogether  hopeless;  no  mistake, 
however  great,  is  wholly  irretrievable. 

"Our  own  sad  hearts  may  say:  'He  has  lain 
in  the  grave  four  days  already. '  But  the  voice 
of  the  Christ  can  answer:  'Lazarus,  come  forth! ' 

"Are  you  not  glad  this  wonderful  thing  took 
place  on  the  Feast  of  the  Star? 

"Affectionately  yours, 
"Diana  Rivers." 


It  so  happened  that  David  had  a  sharp  bout 
of  fever  soon  after  the  arrival  of  this  letter.  His 
colleague  wondered  why,  in  his  delirium,  he  kept 
on  repeating:  "When  I  am  dead,  she  can  have 
a  Fairy  of  her  own!  She  can  have  a  little  Fairy, 
when  I  am  dead!" 


CHAPTER   XXXI 


I  CAN  STAND  ALONE 


IN  the  early  summer  following  the  first  anniver- 
■'■  sary  of  their  wedding-day,  Diana's  anxiety 
about  David  increased. 

His  letters  became  less  regular.  Sometimes 
they  were  written  in  pencil,  with  more  or  less 
incoherent  apologies  for  not  using  ink.  The 
writing  was  larger  than  David's  usual  neat  small 
handwriting;  the  letters,  less  firmly  formed. 

After  receiving  one  of  these,  Diana  experi- 
mented. She  lay  upon  a  couch,  raised  herself 
on  her  left  elbow,  and  wrote  a  few  lines  upon 
paper  lying  beside  her.  This  produced  in  her 
own  writing  exactly  the  same  variation  as  she 
saw  in  David's. 

She  felt  certain  that  David  was  having  frequent 

and  severe  attacks  of  fever;  but  he  still  ignored 

all  questions  concerning  his  own  health ;  or  merely 

answered:  "All  is  well,  thank  you";  and  Diana 

had  cause  to  fear  that  this  answer  was  given  in 

367 


368        The  Following  of  the  Star 

the  spirit  of  the  Shunammite  woman  who,  when 
Elisha  questioned:  "Is  it  well  with  the  child?" 
answered:  "It  is  well";  yet  her  little  son  lay  dead 
at  home. 

In  June,  Diana  wrote  to  David's  colleague, 
asking  him  privately  for  an  exact  account  of  her 
husband's  health.  But  the  colleague  was  loyal. 
David  answered  the  letter. 

As  usual,  all  was  well;  but  it  was  not  well  that 
Diana  had  tried  to  learn  from  some  one  else  a 
thing  which  she  had  reason  to  suppose  David 
himself  did  not  wish  to  tell  her.  He  wrote  very 
sternly,  and  did  not  veil  his  displeasure. 

Womanlike,  Diana  loved  him  for  it. 

"Oh,  my  Boy!"  she  said,  smiling  through  her 
tears;  "my  David,  with  his  thin,  white  face, 
tumbled  hair,  and  boyish  figure!  Sick  or  well, 
absent  or  present,  he  would  always  be  master. 
I  must  try  Sir  Deryck." 

But  she  got  nothing  out  of  her  friend  the  doctor, 
beyond  a  somewhat  stiff  reminder  that  he  had 
told  her  on  her  wedding-day  that  her  husband 
ought  to  return  from  Central  Africa  within  the 
year.  Had  she  really  allowed  him  to  go,  without 
exacting  a  promise  that  he  would  do  so?  He 
might  live  through  two  years  of  that  climate;  but 
his  constitution  could  not  possibly  stand  a  third. 


'•  I  Can  Stand  Alone  "  369 

Her  question,  as  to  whether  Sir  Deryck  had 
received  recent  news  of  David's  health,  remained 
unanswered. 

Diana  felt  annoyed  and  indignant.  A  naturally 
sympathetic  man  is  expected  to  be  unfailingly 
sympathetic.  But  the  doctor  was  strong  as  well 
as  kind.  He  had  been  perplexed  by  the  suddenly 
arranged  marriage;  surprised  at  David's  reticence 
over  it;  and  when  he  realised  that  David  was 
sailing,  without  his  bride,  on  the  afternoon  of  his 
wedding-day,  he  had  been  inclined  to  disapprove 
altogether. 

Diana  sensed  this  disapproval  in  the  doctor's 
letter.  It  hurt  her;  but  it  also  stimulated  her 
pride,  toward  him,  and,  in  a  lesser  degree,  toward 
David.  That  which  they  did  not  choose  to  tell 
her,  she  would  no  longer  ask. 

She  was  acquainted  with  at  least  half  a  dozen 
women  who,  imder  similar  circumstances,  would 
have  telegraphed  for  an  appointment,  rushed  up 
to  town,  and  poured  out  the  whole  stor>'  to  Sir 
Der>'ck  in  his  consulting-room. 

But  Diana  was  not  that  kind  of  woman.  Her 
pain  made  her  silent.  Her  stricken  heart  called 
in  pride,  lest  courage  should  fail.  The  tragic 
situation  was  of  her  own  creating.  That  which 
resulted  therefrom,  she  would  bear  alone. 


370        The  Following  of  the  Star 

She  could  not  see  herself  a  penitent,  in  the  green 
leather  armchair,  in  Sir  Deryck's  consulting-room. 
A  grander  woman  than  she  had  sat  there  once, 
humbled  to  the  very  dust,  that  she  might  win 
the  crown  of  love.  But  Diana's  strength  was  of 
a  weaker  calibre.  Her  escutcheon  was  also  the 
pure  true  heart,  but  its  supporters  were  Courage 
on  the  one  side,  and  Pride  on  the  other;  her  motto: 
"I  can  stand  alone." 

So  she  lived  on,  calmly,  through  the  summer 
months,  while  David's  letters  grew  less  and  less 
frequent;  and,  at  last,  in  October,  the  blow  fell. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

THE  BLOW  FALLS 

TN  October,  during  the  second  autumn  of  their 
*     married  life,  the  blow  fell. 

A  letter  came  from  David;  very  clear,  very 
concise,  very  much  to  the  point;  written  in  ink, 
in  his  small  neat  writing. 

"My  dear  Wife — "  wrote  David,  "I  hope 
you  will  try  to  understand  what  I  am  about  to 
write  and  not  think,  for  a  moment,  that  I  under- 
value the  pleasure  and  help  I  have  received  from 
our  correspondence,  during  the  year  and  nine 
months  which  have  elapsed  since  my  departure 
from  England.  Your  letters  have  been  a  greater 
cheer  and  blessing  than  you  can  possibly  know. 
Also  it  has  been  an  untold  help  to  be  able  to  write 
and  share  with  you,  all  the  little  details  of  my 
interests  out  here. 

"I  am  afraid  these  undeniable  facts  will  make 
it  seem  even  stranger  to  you,  that  I  am  now  \\Titing 
to  ask  that  our  correspondence  should  cease. 

371 


372        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"I  daresay  you  have  noticed  that  my  letters 
lately  have  been  irregular,  and  often,  I  am  afraid, 
short  and  unsatisfactory.  The  fact  is — I  have 
required  all  my  remaining  energy  for  the  comple- 
tion of  my  work  out  here. 

''I  want  to  bid  you  farewell,  my  wife,  while  I 
still  have  strength  to  write  hopefully  of  my  present 
work,  and  joyously  of  the  futiire.  I  will  not,  now, 
hide  from  you,  Diana,  that  my  time  here  is  nearly 
over.  Do  you  remember  how  I  said:  'I  cannot 
promise  to  die,  you  know'?  I  might  have  prom- 
ised, with  a  good  grace,  after  all. 

"This  will  be  the  last  letter  I  shall  write;  and 
when  you  have  answered  it,  do  not  write  again. 
I  may  be  moved  from  here,  any  day;  and  can 
give  you  no  address. 

"You  must  not  suppose,  my  wife,  that,  owing 
to  the  ceasing  of  our  correspondence,  you  will  be 
left  in  any  uncertainty  as  to  when  the  merely 
nominal  bond  which  has  bound  us  together  is 
severed,  leaving  you  completely  free. 

"I  have  written  you  a  letter,  which  I  carry, 
sealed  and  addressed,  in  the  breast  pocket  of  my 
coat.  It  bears  full  instructions  that  it  is  to  be 
forwarded  to  you  immediately  after  my  death,  A 
copy  of  it  is  also  in  my  despatch-box;  so  that — in 
case    of   anything   unforeseen    happening  to  my 


The  Blow  r^'alls  zi?) 

clothes — the  letter  would  without  fail  be  sent 
to  you,  so  soon  as  my  belongings  came  into  the 
hands  of  our  Society. 

"This  letter  is  not,  therefore,  my  final  farewell; 
so  I  do  not  make  it  anything  of  a  good-bye ;  though 
it  puts  an  end  to  our  regular  correspondence. 
And  may  I  ask  you  to  bcHeve  that  there  is  a 
reason  for  this  breaking  off  of  our  correspondence ; 
a  reason  which  I  cannot  feel  free  to  tell  you  now; 
but  which  I  have  explained  fully,  in  the  letter 
you  will  receive  after  my  death?  If  you  now 
find  this  step  somewhat  difficult  to  understand, 
believe  me,  that  when  you  have  read  my  other 
letter,  you  will  at  once  admit  that  I  could  not 
do  otherwise.  I  would  not  give  your  generous 
heart  a  moment's  pain;  even  through  a  mis- 
understanding. 

"And  now,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  may 
I  thank  you  for  all  you  have  done  for  me  and  for 
my  work?  Any  little  service  I  was  able  to 
render  you,  was  as  nothing  compared  with  all 
you  have  so  generously  done  for  me,  and  been 
to  me,  since  the  Feast  of  Epiphany,  nearly  two 
years  ago. 

"Your  help  has  meant  simply  everything  to  the 
work  out  here.  I  am  able  to  feel  that  I  shall 
leave  behind  mc  a  fully  established,  flourishing, 


374        The  Following  of  the  Star 

growing,  eager  young  Church.  My  colleague  is 
a  splendid  fellow,  keen,  earnest,  and  a  good 
churchman.  If  you  feel  able  to  continue  your 
support,  he  will  be  most  grateful,  and  I  can  vouch 
for  him  as  did  the  Jews  of  old,  for  the  Roman 
centurion:  'He  is  worthy,  for  whom  thou  shouldest 
do  this  thing.' 

And,  oh,  if  some  day,  Diana,  you  yourself  could 
visit  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Star!  Some  day; 
but  not  yet. 

"For  this  brings  me  to  the  closing  request  of 
my  letter, 

"I  cannot  but  suspect  that  your  kind  and 
generous  heart  may  incline  you — as  soon  as  you 
receive  this  letter,  and  know  that  I  am 
dying — to  come  out  here  at  once,  in  order  to  bid 
a  personal  farewell  to  your  friend. 

"Do  not  do  so.  Do  not  leave  England  until  you 
receive  word  of  my  death.  I  have  a  reason, 
which  you  will  understand  by  and  by,  for  laying 
special  stress  upon  this  request;  in  fact  it  is  my 
last  wish  and  command,  my  wife.  (I  have  not 
had  much  opportunity  for  tyranny,  have  I?) 

"How  much  your  sympathy,  and  gay  bright 
friendship,  have  meant  to  me,  in  this  somewhat 
lonely  life,  no  words  can  say. 

"Just  now  I  wrote  of  the  time,  so  soon  coming, 


The  Blow  Falls  375 

when  the  nominal  bond  between  us  would  be 
severed,  leaving  you  completely  free.  You  must 
not  even  feel  yourself  a  widow,  Diana;  because 
you  will  not  really  be  one.  I  have  called  you  my 
'wife,'  I  know;  but  it  has  just  been  a  courtesy 
title.     Has  n't  it? 

"Yet — may  I  say  it? — I  trust  and  believe  the 
very  perfect  friendship  between  us  will  be  a 
lasting  link,  which  even  death  cannot  sever. 
And  there  is  a  yet  closer  bond:  One  Lord,  one 
Faith,  one  Baptism.     This  is  eternal. 

"So — I  say  again  as  I  said,  with  my  hands  on 
your  bowed  head,  on  that  Christmas  night  so 
long  ago,  before  we  knew  all  that  was  to  be  between 
us. 

"The   Lord  bless  thee,   and  keep  thee; 
The  Lord    make    His    face    shine   upon    thee, 

and   be  gracious  unto  thee; 
The  Lord  lift  up  His  countenance   upon  thee, 
and  give  thee  peace." 

"Good-bye,  my  v^-ife. 
"Yours  ever, 

"  D.wiD  Rivers.  " 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

REQUIESCAT  IN  PACE 

r^IANA  sat  perfectly  still,  when  she  had  finished 
*— ^     reading  David's  letter. 

A  year  ago  she  would  have  flung  herself  upon 
her  knees,  sobbing:  "David,  David!"  But  the 
time  for  weeping  and  calling  him  had  long  gone 
by.  These  deeper  depths  of  anguish  neither 
moaned  nor  cried  out.  They  just  silently  turned 
her  to  stone. 

Every  vestige  of  colour  had  left  her  face,  yet 
she  did  not  know  she  was  pale.  She  sat,  looking 
straight  before  her,  and — realising. 

David  was  dying;  and  David  did  not  want  her. 

David  was  dying  in  Central  Africa;  yet  his  last 
request  was  that  she  should  stay  in  England,  until 
she  heard  of  his  death. 

Every  now  and  then  her  lips  moved.  She  was 
repeating,  quietly:  "The  merely  nominal  bond 
which  has  bound  us  together."  And  then,  with 
a   ghastly   face,   and   eyes   which   widened   with 

376 


Rccjuicscat  in  Pace  377 

anguish:  "I  have  called  you  my  'wife,'  I  know; 
but  it  has  just  been  a  courtesy  title.  Has  n't 
it?" 

Hasn't  it!  Oh,  David,  has  it?  Was  it  a 
courtesy  title  at  the  top  of  the  gangway?  Good- 
bye, my  wife.  Was  it  a  courtesy  title,  when  that 
deep  possessive  yearning  voice  rang  in  her  cars 
for  hours  afterwards;  teaching  her  at  last  what 
love,  marriage,  and  wifehood  might  really  have 
meant? 

Was  it  a  courtesy  title  when  his  first  letter 
arrived,  and  the  words  my  dear  ivije  came  round 
her  in  her  shame,  like  strong  protective  arms? 

All  this  time,  had  it  meant  even  less  to  David 
than  she  had  thought? 

Often  her  punishment  had  seemed  greater 
than  she  could  bear.  Often  the  branding-iron 
of  vain  regret  had  seared  her  quivering  heart. 

But  this — this  was  indeed  the  cruel  pincers  of 
the  Roman  torture-chamber  at  her  very  breasts! 

It  had  been  just  a  courtesy  title;  and  she  had 
hugged  it  to  her,  as  the  one  thing  which  proved 
that — however  little  it  might  ever  mean — at  least 
she  was  more  to  David  than  any  one  else  on  earth. 

On  earth!  How  much  longer  would  he  be  on 
earth?  David,  with  his  bo^'ish  figure,  and  little 
short   coat.      Ah!     In    the    pocket  of  that  coat 


378        The  Following  of  the  Star 

was  a  letter  for  her — one  more  letter ;  his  fare- 
well. And  she  was  not  to  receive  it  until  it  would 
be  too  late  to  send  any  answer. 

Oh,  David,  David!  Is  all  this  mere  accident, 
or  are  you  deliberately  punishing  your  wife  for 
the  slight  she  put  upon  yoiu:  manhood?  vShe 
did  it  in  ignorance,  David.  She  mounted  the 
platform  of  her  own  ignorance,  and  spoke  out 
of  the  depths  of  her  absolute  inexperience. 

Too  late  to  send  any  answer!  Yes;  but  there 
was  time  to  answer  this  one.  If  she  caught 
to-night's  mail,  David  might  yet  receive  her 
reply,  and  learn  the  truth,  before  he  died. 

Pride  and  Courage  stepped  away,  leaving, 
unsupported,  the  escutcheon  of  the  pure  true 
heart. 

She  took  pen  and  paper  and  wrote  her  last 
letter  to  David. 

Even  had  that  letter  been  sent,  so  wonderful 
an  outpouring  of  a  woman's  pent  up  love  and 
longing;  so  desperate  a  laying  bare  of  her  heart's 
life,  could  only  have  been  for  the  eye  of  the  man 
for  whom  it  was  intended.  To  read  it  would  have 
been  desecration ;  to  print  it,  sacrilege. 

But  the  letter  was  not  sent.  Half  way  through, 
Diana  suddenly  remembered  that  when  it  reached 


Rcquicscat  in  Pace  379 

David  he  would  be  ill  and  weak;  perhaps,  actually 
dying.  She  must  not  trouble  his  last  moments, 
with  such  an  outpouring  of  grief  and  remorse; 
of  longing  and  of  loneliness.  ^ 

And  here  we  see  the  mother  in  Diana,  coming 
to  the  fore  in  tender  thought  for  David,  even  in 
the  midst  of  her' own  desperate  need  to  tell  him 
all.     Nothing  must  trouble  his  peace  at  the  last. 

The  passionate  outpouring  was  flung  into  a 
drawer. 

Diana  took  fresh  paper,  and  drew  it  toward 
her. 

Courage  came  back  to  his  place  at  the  right 
of  the  escutcheon.  Pride  stayed  away,  forever 
slain.  But,  in  his  stead,  there  stepped  to  the 
left,  the  Madonna  with  eyes  of  love;  the  Infant 
in  her  arms. 

Then  Diana — thrusting  back  her  own  fierce 
aj^ony,  that  David  might  die  in  peace — began 
her  final  letter. 

"RiVERSCOURT. 

"My  dear,  de.\r  D.wid, — I  do  not  need  to 
tell  you  how  deeply  I  feel  your  letter;  bringing 
the  news  it  does,  about  yourself.  But  of  course 
I  understand  it  perfectly ;  and  you  must  not  worry 
at  all  over  trying  to  make  any  further  explanations, 
I  will  do  exactly  as  vou  wish,  in  every  detail. 


38o        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"Of  course,  I  should  have  come  out  directly 
your  letter  reached  me,  if  you  had  not  asked  me 
not  to  do  so.  I  long  to  be  with  you,  David.  If 
yon  should  change  your  mind,  and  wish  for  me, 
a  cable  would  bring  me,  by  the  next  boat,  and 
quickest  overland  route.  Otherwise  I  will  remain 
in  England,  until  I  receive  your  letter. 

"I  cannot  stay  at  Riverscourt.  It  would  be 
too  lonely  without  any  prospect  of  letters  from 
you.  But  you  remember  the  hospital  of  the 
Holy  Star  of  which  I  told  you,  where  I  was 
training  when  Uncle  Falcon  wrote  for  me?  I 
have  been  there  often  lately,  going  up  once  a  week 
for  a  day  in  the  out-patients'  department;  and 
last  week  my  friend,  the  matron,  told  me  that  the 
sister  in  one  of  the  largest  wards — my  old  ward — 
must,  imexpectedly,  return  home  for  an  indefinite 
time.  This  was  placing  them  in  somewhat  of  a 
difficulty. 

"I  shall  now  offer  to  take  her  place,  and  go 
there  for  three  months  or  so;  anyway  until  after 
Christmas.  But  Riverscourt  will  remain  open, 
and  all  my  letters  will  be  immediately  forwarded. 

"You  must  not  mind  my  going  to  the  hospital. 
I  shall  find  it  easier  to  bear  my  sorrow,  while 
working  day  and  night  for  others.  For,  David — 
oh,  David,  it  is  a  terrible  sorrow! 


Rcquicscat  in  Pace  381 

"I  must  not  worry  you  now,  with  tales  of  my 
own  poor  heart;  but  ever  since  I  lost  you,  David; 
ever  since  our  wedding-day  evening,  I  have  loved 
you,  and  longed  for  you,  more,  and  more,  and 
more.  When  you  called  me  your  wife  on  the 
gangway,  it  revealed  to  me,  suddenly,  what  it 
really  meant  to  be  your  wife. 

"Oh,  my  Boy,  my  Darling,  when  I  lose  you,  I 
shall  be  a  widow  indeed!  But  you  must  not 
let  the  thought  of  my  sorrow  disturb  your  last 
moments.  Perhaps,  when  you  reach  the  Land 
that  is  very  far  ofT,  I  shall  feel  you  less  far  away 
than  in  Central  Africa.  Be  near  me,  sometimes, 
if  you  can,  David. 

"I  shall  go  on  striving  to  offer  my  gifts;  though 
the  gold  and  the  frankincense  will  be  overwhelmed 
by  the  myrrh.  But  the  Star  we  have  followed 
together,  will  still  lead  me  on.  And  perhaps  it  will 
guide  me  at  last  to  the  foot  of  the  shining  throne, 
where  my  Darling  will  sit  in  splendour.  And  I 
shall  see  his  look  call  me  to  him,  as  it  called  in 
old  St.  Botolph's;  and  I  shall  pass  up  the  aisle  of 
glory,  and  hear  him  say:  'Come,  my  wife.' 
Then  I  shall  kneel  at  his  feet,  and  lay  my  head 
on  his  knees.     Oh,  David,  David! 

"Your  own  wife,  who  loves  you  and  longs  for  you, 

"Diana  Rivers." 


382        The  Following  of  the  Star 

There  was  much  she  would  have  expressed 
otherw'ise ;  there  were  some  things  she  would  have 
left  unsaid;  but  there  was  no  time  to  rewrite  her 
letter.  So  Diana  let  it  go  as  it  was ;  and  it  caught 
the  evening  mail. 

But  even  so,  David  never  saw  it;  for  it  arrived, 
alas,  just  twenty-four  hours  too  late. 

Here  endeth  frankincense. 


MYRRH 


383 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

IN   THE   HOSPITAL   OF   THE   HOLY   STAR 

/^NCE  again  it  was  Christmas-eve;  but,  in  the 
^-^  midst  of  the  strenuous  life  of  a  busy  London 
hospital,  Diana  scarcely  had  leisure  to  realise 
the  season,  or  to  allow  herself  the  private  luxury 
of  dwelling  in  thought  upon  the  anniversaries 
which  were  upon  her  once  more;  the  three  im- 
portant dates,  coming  round  for  the  third  time. 

She  had  fled  from  a  brooding  leisure — a  leisure 
in  which  she  dared  not  await  the  news  of  David's 
death,  or  the  coming  of  his  farewell  letter — and  she 
had  fled  successfully. 

The  Sister  of  Saint  Angela's  ward,  in  the  Hos- 
pital of  the  Holy  Star,  had  no  time  for  brooding, 
and  very  few  moments  in  which  to  give  a  thought 
to  herself  or  her  own  sorrows.  The  needs  of 
others  were  too  all-absorbing. 

Diana,  in  the  severe  simplicity  of  her  uncom- 
promising uniform ;  Diana,  with  a  stiiBy  starched 
white  cap,  almost  concealing  her  coronet  of  soft 
golden  hair,  bore  little  outward  resemblance  to 
s  385 


386        The  Following  of  the  Star 

David's  sweet  Lady  of  Mystery,  who  had  stood 
in  an  attitude  of  hesitancy  at  the  far  end  of 
Brambledene  church,  on  that  winter's  night 
two    years   before. 

And  yet  the  grey  eyes  held  a  gentleness,  and  the 
firm  white  hands  a  tenderness  of  touch,  unknown 
to  them  then. 

During  the  two  months  of  her  strong,  just  rule 
in  the  ward  of  Saint  Angela,  the  only  people  who 
feared  her  were  those  who  sought  to  evade  duty, 
disobey  regulations,  or  feign  complaints. 

The  genuine  sufferer  looked  with  eager  eyes  for 
the  approach,  towards  his  bed,  of  that  tall,  gracious 
figure;  the  passing  soul  strained  back  from  the 
Dark  Valley  to  hear  the  words  of  hope  and  cheer 
spoken, unfalteringly, by  that  kind  voice;  the  dying 
hand  clung  to  those  strong  fingers,  while  the  first 
black  waves  passed  over,  engulfing  the  outer 
world. 

Christmas-eve  had  been  a  strenuous  day  in  the 
ward  of  Saint  Angela.  Two  ambulance  calls, 
and  an  operation  of  great  severity,  had  added 
to  the  usual  routine  of  the  day's  work. 

It  was  Diana's  last  day  in  charge.  The  Sister, 
whose  place  she  had  temporarily  filled,  returned  to 
the  hospital  at  noon,  and  came  on  duty  at  four 
o'clock. 


In  the  Hospital  of  the  Holy  Star  387 

Diana  went  to  her  own  room  at  live,  with  a 
pleasant  sense  of  freedom  from  responsibility, 
and  with  more  leisure  to  think  over  her  own  plans 
and  concerns,  than  she  had  known  for  many  weeks. 
At  seven  o'clock.  Sir  Deryck  was  due,  for  an  im- 
portant consultation  over  an  obscure  brain  case 
which  interested  him.  Until  then,  she  was  free. 
On  the  following  day  she  intended  to  return  to 
Riverscourt. 

Her  little  room  seemed  cosy  and  homelike  as 
she  entered  it.  The  curtains  were  drawn,  shutting 
out  the  murky  fog  of  the  December  night.  The 
ceaseless  roar  of  London's  busy  traffic  reached 
her  as  a  muffled  hum,  too  subdued  and  continuous 
to  attract  immediate  notice.  A  lighted  lamp 
stood  on  the  little  writing-table.  A  bright  fire 
burned  in  the  grate;  a  kettle  sang  on  the  hob.  A 
tea-tray  stood  in  readiness  beside  her  easy  chair. 

Within  the  circle  of  the  lamplight  lay  a  small 
pile  of  letters,  just  arrived.  At  sight  of  these 
Diana  moved  quickly  forward,  glancing  through 
them   with   swift   tension   of   anxiety. 

No,  it  was  not  among  them. 

Several  times  each  day  she  passed  through  this 
moment  of  acute  suspense. 

But,  not  3'et  had  David's  letter  reached  her. 

Yet,  somehow,  she  had  long  felt  certain  that 


388        The  Following  of  the  Star 

it  would  come  on  Christmas-eve:  the  letter,  at 
sight  of  which  she  would  know  that  her  husband 
had  reached  at  last  "the  Land  that  is  very  far  off." 

Moving  to  the  fireplace,  she  made  herself  some 
tea,  in  the  little  brown  pot,  which,  from  constant 
use,  by  day  and  by  night,  had  become  a  humble 
yet   unfailing   friend. 

Then  she  lay  back  in  her  chair,  with  a  delight- 
ful sense  of  liberty  and  leisure,  and  gave  herself 
up  to  a  quiet  hour  of  retrospective  thought. 

It  seemed  years  since  that  October  morning 
when  David's  letter  had  reached  her  and  she  had 
had  to  face  the  fact  that  he  was  dying,  yet  did  not 
want  her;  indeed  begged,  commanded  her,  to 
stay  away. 

In  that  hour  she  lost  David ;  lost  him  more  com- 
pletely than  she  could  ever  lose  him  by  death. 
A  loved  one  lost  in  life,  is  lost  indeed.  She  had 
never  been  worthy  of  David.  She  had  tried 
hard,  by  a  life  of  perpetual  frankincense,  to 
become  worthy.  But  no  effort  in  the  present 
could  undo  the  great  wrong  of  the  past. 

Before  the  relentless  hand  of  death  actually 
widowed  her,  her  sad  heart  was  widowed  by  the 
fact  that  her  husband  was  dying,  yet  did  not 
want  her  with  him;  that  his  last  weeks  were  to  be 


In  the  Hospital  o(  the  Holy  Star  389 

undisturbed  by  letters  to,  or  from,  her.  Her  one 
joy  in  the  present,  her  sole  hope  for  the  immediate 
future,  had  died  at  that  decision. 

Nothing  remained  for  her  but  submissive  ac- 
quiescence, a  waiting  in  stony  patience  for  the 
final  news,  and  a  wistful  yearning  desire  that, 
while  yet  in  life,  David  might  learn,  from  her 
letter,  the  truth  as  to  her  love  for  himself.  If  it 
had  reached  him  in  time,  it  might  bring  her  the 
consolation  of  an  understanding  postscript  to 
that  final  farewell  which  was  to  come  to  her  at 
last  from  the  breast-pocket  of  David's  coat. 

Her  departure  from  Riverscourt  had  been 
quickly  and  easily  arranged. 

For  once,  Mrs.  J^Iallory's  plans  had  worked  in 
conveniently  with  other  people's.  On  the  very 
evening  of  the  arrival  of  David's  letter,  she  had 
sought  Diana  in  the  library-,  and  had  announced, 
amid  tears  and  smiles  and  many  incoherent 
remarks  about  Philip,  her  engagement  to  the 
curate  of  a  neighbouring  parish. 

For  the  moment,  Diana's  astonishment  ousted 
her  ready  tact.  Whatever  else  Mrs.  Mallory 
might  or  might  not  be,  Diana  had  certainly 
looked  upon  her  as  being  what  Saint  Paul  de- 
scribed as  a  "widow  indeed."  And  when  Mrs. 
Mallory  went  on  to  explain  that,  though  her  ovs-n 


390        The  Following  of  the  Star 

feelings  were  still  uncertain  and  vague  to  a  degree, 
dear  Philip  was  so  touchingly  pleased  and  happy, 
Diana  rose  and  stood,  with  bent  brows,  on  the 
hearth-rug,  until  Mrs.  Mallory  finally  made  it 
clear  that  by  one  of  those  exceedingly  wonderful 
coincidences  in  which  we  may  surely  trace  the 
finger  of  an  All-wise  Providence,  the  curate's 
Christian  name  was  also  Philip!  So  the  Philip 
who  was  so  touchingly  pleased  and  happy,  was 
Philip,  number  two! 

This  was  enough  for  Diana.  It  was  the  final 
straw  which  broke  the  back  of  her  much  enduring 
sympathy. 

She  unbent  her  level  brows,  smiled  her  congratu- 
lations, and,  from  that  moment,  swept  Mrs. 
Mallory  completely  out  of  her  mind  and  out  of 
her  life.  She  subsequently  signed  the  cheque  for 
a  substantial  wedding-present  as  impersonally  as, 
a  moment  later,  she  signed  another  in  payment 
of  her  coal  merchant's  account.  Her  own 
widowed  spirit  rendered  it  impossible  to  her  ever 
to  give  another  conscious  thought  to  Mrs. 
Mallory. 

At  first,  life  in  the  hospital,  with  its  incessant 
interest  and  constant  round  of  important  duties, 
roused  her  mind  to  a  new  line  of  thought,  and 


In  the  HospiUil  of  the  Holy  Star  391 

wearied  her  body  into  sound  and  dreamless 
slumber,  whenever  sleep  was  to  be  had. 

But,  before  long,  the  work  became  routine;  her 
physique  adjusted  itself  to  the  "on  duty"  and 
"off  duty"  arrangements. 

Then  a  terrible  loneliness,  as  regards  the  present, 
and  blank  despair  in  regard  to  the  future,  laid 
hold  of  Diana.  She  seemed  to  have  lost  all.  She 
cared  no  longer  for  her  stately  home,  her  position 
in  the  county,  all  the  many  advantages  for  which 
she  had  ventured  so  bold  a  stake.  She  had 
now  voluntarily  surrendered  them;  and  here  she 
was,  back  in  the  hospital,  in  nurse's  uniform, 
in  her  small  simply  furnished  room,  working 
hard,  in  order  to  escape  from  leisure.  Here  she 
was,  in  the  very  position  to  avoid  which  she  had 
married  David;  and,  here  she  was,  having  married 
David,  learnt  to  love  him,  and  then — lost  him. 

Her  gift  of  gold  seemed  worth  little  or  nothing. 

Her  gift  of  frankincense  had  ended  in  heart- 
broken failure. 

What  was  left  now,  save  myrrh — David's  gift 
of  myrrh,  and  her  anguish  in  the  fact  that  he 
offered  it? 

During  this  period  of  blank  despair,  Diana  went 
one  afternoon  to  a  service  in  a  place  where  many 
earnest    hearts   gathered   each   week   for   praise, 


392        The  Following  of  the  Star 

prayer,  and  Bible  study.  She  went  to  please  a 
friend,  without  having  personally  any  special 
expectation  of  profit   or  of  enjoyment. 

The  proceedings  opened  with  a  hymn — a  very 
short  hymn  of  three  verses,  which  Diana  had  never 
before  heard.  Yet  those  words,  in  their  inspired 
simplicity,  were  to  mean  more  to  her  than  any- 
thing had  ever  as  yet  meant  in  her  whole  life. 
Before  the  audience  rose  to  sing,  she  had  time  to 
read  the  three  verses  through. 

"Jesus,  stand  among  us, 
In  Thy  risen  power; 
Let  this  time  of  worship 
Be  a  hallowed  hour. 

"Breathe  Thy  Holy  Spirit 
Into  every  heart; 
Bid  the  fears  and  sorrows, 
From  each  soul  depart. 

"Thus,  with  quickened  footsteps, 
We  'U  pursue  our  way; 
Watching  for  the  dawning 
Of  the  eternal  day." 

Who  can  gauge  the  power  of  an  inspired  hymn 
of  prayer?  As  the  simple  melody  rose  and  fell, 
sung  by  hundreds  of  believing,  expectant  hearts, 
Diana  became  conscious  of  an  unseen  Presence 
in  the  midst,  overshadowing  the  personality  of 
the  minister,  just  as  in  the  noble  monument  to 


In  the  Hospital  of  the  Holy  Star  393 

Phillips  Brooks,  outside  his  church  in  the  beautiful 
city  of  Boston,  the  mighty  tender  figure  of  his 
Master,  standing  behind  him,  overshadows  the 
sculptured  form  of  the  great  preacher. 

The  Presence  of  the  risen  Christ  was  there; 
the  Power  of  the  risen  Christ,  then  and  there, 
laid  hold  upon  Diana. 

"Jesus,  stand  among  us, 
In  Thy  risen  power — " 

pleaded  a  great  assemblage  of  believing  hearts; 
and,  in  very  deed,  He  stood  among  them;  and  He 
drew  near  in  tenderness  to  the  one  lonely  soul 
who,  more  than  all  others,  needed  Him. 

None  other  human  words  reached  Diana  during 
that  "hour  of  worship."  He,  Who  stood  in  the 
midst,  dealt  with  her  Himself,  in  the  secret  of 
her  own  spirit-chamber. 

She  saw  the  happenings  of  the  past  in  a  new 
light. 

First  of  all.  Self  had  reigned  supreme. 

Then — when  the  great  earthly  love  had  ousted 
Self — she  had  placed  David  upon  the  throne. 

Now  the  true  and  only  King  of  Love  drew  near 
in  risen  power;  and  she  realised  that  He  was 
come,  in  deepest  tenderness,  to  claim  the  place 
which  should  all  along  have  been  His  own. 


394        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"  Bid  the  fears  and  sorrows 
From  each  soul  depart. " 

"Fear  not;  I  am  the  First  and  the  Last,  and 
the  Living  One." 

Her  whole  life  just  now  had  seemed  to  be  made 
up  of  fears  and  sorrows;  but  they  all  vanished  in 
the  light  of  this  new  revelation:  "Christ  is  all, 
and  in  all." 

Her  broken  heart  arose,  and  crowned  Him 
King. 

Her  love  for  David,  her  anguish  over  David, 
were  not  lessened;  but  her  heart's  chief  love  was 
given  to  Him  unto  Whom  it  rightfully  belonged; 
and  her  soul  found,  at  last,  its  deepest  rest  and 
peace. 

"Thus,  with  quickened  footsteps, 
We  '11  pursue  our  way; 
Watching  for  the  dawning 
Of  the  eternal  day." 

Diana  went  out,  when  that  hour  was  over, 
with  footsteps  quickened  indeed.  Hitherto  she 
had  been  watching,  in  hopeless  foreboding,  for 
news  of  David's  death.  Now  she  was  watching, 
in  glad  certainty,  for  the  eternal  dawn,  which 
should  bring  her  beloved  and  herself  to  kneel  to- 
gether at  the  foot  of  the  throne.  For  He  Who  sat 
thereon  was  no  longer  David,  but  David's  Lord. 


In  the  Hospital  of  the  Holy  Star  395 

At  last  she  realised  that  she  too  could  bring 
her  offering  of  myrrh.  She  remembered  David's 
words  in  that  Christmas-eve  sermon,  so  long  ago: 
"Your  present  offering  of  myrrh  is  the  death  of 
self,  the  daily  crucifying  of  the  self-life.  'For 
the  love  of  Christ  constraineth  us,  because  we 
thus  judge:  that  if  one  died  for  all,  then  were  all 
dead;  and  that  He  died  for  all,  that  they  which 
live,  should  not  henceforth  live  unto  themselves, 
but  unto  Him,  Who  died  for  them,  and  rose  again.' 
Your  response  to  that  constraining  love;  your 
acceptance  of  that  atoning  death;  your  acquies- 
cence in  that  crucifixion  of  self,  constitute  your 
offering  of  myrrh." 

She  understood  it  now;  and  she  felt  strangely, 
sweetly,  one  with  David.  He,  in  the  wilds  of 
Central  Africa;  she,  in  a  hospital  in  the  heart  of 
London's  busy  life,  were  each  presenting  their 
offering  of  myrrh;  and  God,  Who  alone  can  make 
all  things  work  together  for  good,  had  overruled 
their  great  mistake,  and  was  guiding  them,  across 
life's  lonely  desert,  to  the  feet  of  the  King. 

From  that  hour,  Diana's  life  was  one  of  calm 
strength  and  beauty.  Her  heart  still  momentarily 
ceased  beating  at  the  arrival  of  each  mail;  she 
still  yearned  for  the  assurance  that  David  had 
received  her  letter;  but   the   risen  power  which 


396        The  Following  of  the  Star 

had  touched  her  life  had  bestowed  upon  it  a 
deep  inward  cahn,  which  nothing  could  ruffle  or 
remove. 

Yet  this  Christmas-eve,  so  full  of  recollections, 
brought  with  it  an  almost  overwhelming  longing 
for  David. 

As  she  lay  back  in  her  chair,  the  scene  in  the 
vestry  rose  so  clearly  before  her.  She  could  see 
him  seated  on  the  high  stool,  Httle  piles  of  money 
and  the  open  book  in  front  of  him,  two  wax  candles 
on  the  table.  She  could  see  David's  luminous 
eyes  as  he  said:  "I  cannot  stand  for  my  King. 
I  am  but  His  messenger ;  the  voice  in  the  wilderness 
crying :  Prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord ;  make  His 
paths  straight." 

Poor  David!  All  unbeknown  to  himself,  she 
had  made  him  stand  for  his  King.  Yet  truly  he 
had  prepared  the  way;  and  now,  at  last,  the  King 
was  on  the  throne. 


Diana  roused  herself  and  looked  at  the  clock: 
five  minutes  to  seven. 

She  rose,  and  going  to  the  window,  drew  aside 
the  curtain.  The  fog  had  partially  lifted;  the 
sky  was  clearing.  Through  a  forest  of  chimneys 
there  shone,  clear  and  distinct,  one  brilliant  star. 

"And  when  they  saw  the  star  they  rejoiced," 


In  the  Hospital  of  the  Holy  Star  397 

quoted  Diana.  "Oh,  my  Boy,  are  you  now  be- 
yond the  stars,  or  do  you  still  lift  dear  tired  eyes 
io  watch  their  shining?" 

Then  she  dropped  the  curtain,  left  her  room, 
and  passed  down  the  flight  of  stone  stairs,  to  meet 
Sir  Deryck. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE   LETTER   COMES 

A  S  Diana  and  the  great  specialist  passed  through 
'**  the  lower  hall  the  ambulance  bell  sounded, 
sharply. 

They  mounted  the  stairs  together. 

"Ambulance  call  from  Euston  Station,"  shouted 
the  porter,  from  below. 

Diana  sighed.  "That  will  most  likely  mean 
another  bad  operation  to-night,"  she  remarked 
to  Sir  Deryck.  "These  fogs  work  pitiless  havoc 
among  poor  fellows  on  the  line.  We  had  a  double 
amputation  this  afternoon — a  plate-layer,  with 
both  legs  crushed.  The  worst  case  I  have  ever 
seen.  Yet  we  hope  to  save  him.  How  little  the 
outside  world  knows  of  the  awful  sights  we  are 
suddenly  called  upon  to  face,  in  these  places,  at 
all  hours  of  the  day  and  night!" 

"Does  it  try  your  nerve?"  asked  the  doctor, 
as  they  paused  a  moment  at  the  entrance  to  the 
ward. 

398 


The  Letter  Comes  399 

Diana  smiled,  meeting  his  clear  eyes  with  the 
steadfast  courage  of  her  own. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  My  hunting-field  experiences 
stand  me  in  good  stead.  Also,  when  one  is  re- 
sponsible for  every  preparation  which  is  to  ensure 
success  for  the  surgeon's  skill,  one  has  no  time  to 
encourage  or  to  contemplate  one's  own  squeamish- 
ness." 

The  doctor  smiled,  comprehendingly. 

"Hospital  life  eliminates  self,"  he  said. 

"All  life  worth  living  does  that,"  rejoined 
Diana,  and  they  entered  the  ward. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  stood  together  near  the 
top  of  the  staircase,  talking,  in  low  voices,  over 
the  case  in  which  Sir  Deryck  was  interested. 
They  heard,  below,  the  measured  tread  on  the 
stone  floor,  of  the  ambulance  men  returning  with 
their  burden.  It  was  the  "call"  from  Euston 
Station. 

The  little  procession  slowly  mounted  the  stairs : 
two  men  carrying  a  stretcher,  a  nurse  preceding, 
the  house  surgeon  following. 

Diana  rested  her  hand  on  the  rail,  and  bent 
over  to  look. 

A  slight,  unconscious  figure  lay  on  the  stretcher. 
The  light  fell  full  on  the  deathly  pallor  of  the 
worn  face.     The  head  moved  from  side  to  side, 


400        The  Following  of  the  Star 

as  the  bearers  mounted  the  steps.  One  arm 
sHpped  down,  and  hung  limp  and  helpless. 

"Steady!"  called  the  house-surgeon,  from  below. 

The  nurse  turned,  gently  lifted  the  nerveless 
hand,  and  laid  it  across  the  breast. 

Diana,  clutching  the  rail,  gazed  down  speechless 
at  the  face,  on  which  lay  already  the  unmis- 
takable shadow  of  death. 

Then  she  turned,  seized  Sir  Deryck's  arm,  and 
shook  it. 

"It  is  David,"  she  said.  "Do  you  hear?  Oh, 
my  God,  it  is  David!" 

The  doctor  did  not  answer;  but,  as  the  Httle 
procession  reached  the  top  of  the  staircase,  he 
stepped  forward. 

"Found  unconscious  in  the  Liverpool  train," 
said  the  house-surgeon.  "Seems  a  bad  case;  but 
still  ahve." 

The  bearers  moved  towards  the  ward;  but 
Diana,  white  and  rigid,  barred  the  way. 

"Not  here,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  seemed  to 
her  to  come  from  miles  away.  "Not  here.  Into 
the  private  ward." 

They  turned  to  the  left  and  entered  a  small 
quiet  room. 

"It  is  David,"  repeated  Diana,  mechanically. 
"It  is  David." 


The  Letter  Comes  401 

They  placed  the  stretcher  near  the  bed,  which 
the  nurse  was  quickly  making  ready. 

As  if  conscious  of  some  unexpected  develop- 
ment, all  stood  away  from  it,  in  silence. 

Diana  and  the  doctor  drew  near.  Their  eyes 
met  across  the  stretcher. 

"  It  is  David,"  said  Diana.  "He  has  come,  back 
to  me.     Dear  God,  he  has  come  back  to  me!" 

Her  grey  eyes  widened.  She  gazed  at  the 
doctor,  in  startled  unseeing  anguish. 

"Just  help  me  a  moment,  Mrs.  Rivers,  will 
you?"  said  Sir  Deryck's  quiet,  steady  voice. 
"You  and  I  will  place  him  on  the  bed;  and  then, 
with  Dr.  Walters's  help,  we  can  soon  see  what 
to  do  next.  Put  your  hands  so.  .  .  .  That  is 
right.     Now,  lift  carefully.     Do  not  shake  him." 

Together  they  lifted  David's  wasted  form,  and 
laid  it  gently  on  the  bed. 

"Go  and  open  the  window,"  whispered  Sir 
Deryck  to  Diana.  "Stand  there  a  moment  or 
two ;  then  close  it  again.  Do  as  I  tell  you,  my  dear 
girl.     Doit, for  David's  sake.'' 

Mechanically,   Diana  obeyed.     She  knew  that 

if  she  wished  to  keep  control  over  herself,  she  must 

not  look  just  yet  on  that  dear  dying  face ;  she  must 

not  see  the  thin  travel-stained  figure. 

She  stood  at  the  open  window,  and  the  breath 
36 


402        The  Following  of  the  Star 

of  night  air  seemed  to  restore  her  powers  of 
thought  and  action.  She  steadied  herself  against 
the  window  frame,  and  Hfted  her  eyes.  Above 
the  forest  of  chimney  stacks,  shone  one  briUiant 
star. 

Her  Boy  was  going  quickly — beyond  the  stars. 
But  he  had  come  back  to  her  first. 

Suddenly  she  understood  why  he  had  stopped 
the  correspondence.  He  was  on  the  eve  of  his 
brave  struggle  to  reach  home.  And  why  he  had 
begged  her  to  remain  in  England — oh,  God,  of 
course!  Not  because  he  did  not  want  her,  but 
because  he  himself  was  coming  home.  Oh,  David, 
David! 

She  turned  back  into  the  room. 

Skilful  hands  were  undressing  David. 

Something  lay  on  the  floor.  Mechanically 
Diana  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  It  was  his 
little  short  black  jacket;  the  rather  threadbare 
"old  friend." 

Diana  gave  one  loud  sudden  cry,  and  put  her 
hand  to  her  throat. 

Sir  Deryck  stepped  quickly  between  her  and 
the  bed;  then  led  her  firmly  to  the  door. 

"Go  to  your  room,"  he  said.  "It  is  so  far 
better  that  you  should  not  be  here  just  now. 
Everything   possible   shall  be   done.     You  know 


The  Letter  Comes  403 

you  can  confidently  leave  him  to  us.  David  him- 
self would  wish  you  to  leave  him  to  us.  Sit  down 
and  face  the  situation  calmly.  He  may  regain 
consciousness,  and  if  he  does,  you  must  be  ready, 
and  you  must  have  yourself  well  in  hand." 

The  doctor  put  her  gently  out,  through  the  half- 
open  door. 

Diana    turned,    hesitating. 

"You  would  call  me — if?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor;  "  I  will  call  you — then." 

Diana  still  held  David's  jacket.  She  slipped 
her  hand  into  the  breast-pocket,  and  drew  out 
a  sealed  envelope. 

"Sir  Deryck,"  she  said,  "this  is  a  letter  from 
David  to  me,  which  I  was  to  receive  after  his 
death.     Do  you  think  I  may  read  it  now?" 

The  doctor  glanced  back  at  the  bed.  A  nurse 
stood  waiting  with  the  hypodermic  and  the 
strychnine  for  which  he  had  asked.  The  house 
surgeon,  on  one  knee,  had  his  fingers  on  David's 
wrist.  He  met  the  question  in  the  doctor's  eyes, 
and  shook  his  head. 

"Yes,  I  think  you  may  read  it  now,"  said  Sir 
Deryck  gently;  and  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

DIANA   LEARNS  THE  TRUTH 

r^IANA  passed  to  her  room,  with  the  sense 
*~^^  of  all  around  her  being  dream-like  and 
unreal. 

When  the  unexpected,  beyond  all  imagining, 
suddenly  takes  place  in  a  life,  its  everyday 
setting  loses  reality;  its  commonplace  surroundings 
become  intangible  and  vague.  There  seemed  no 
solidity  about  the  stone  floors  and  passages  of 
the  hospital;  no  reality  about  the  ceaseless  roar 
of  London  traffic  without. 

The  only  real  things  to  Diana,  as  she  sank  into 
her  arm-chair,  were  that  she  held  David's  coat 
clasped  in  her  arms;  that  David's  sealed  letter 
was  in  her  hand;  that  David  himself  lay,  hovering 
between  life  and  death,  just  down  the  corridor. 

At  first  she  could  only  clasp  his  coat  to  her 

breast,  whispering  brokenly:  "He  has  come  back 

to  me!     David,   David!     He  has  come  back  to 

me!" 

404 


Diana  Learns  the  Truth  405 

Then  she  reaHsed  how  all-important  it  was,  in 
case  he  suddenly  recovered  consciousness,  that 
she  should  know  at  once  what  he  had  said  to  her 
in   his  farewell  letter. 

With  an  effort  she  opened  it,  drew  out  the 
closely  written  sheets,  and  read  it;  holding  the 
worn  and  dusty  coat  still  clasped  closely  to  her. 

"  My  dear  Wife, — When  you  read  these  lines, 
I  shall  have  reached  the  Land  from  whence  there 
is  no  return — 'the  Land  that  is  very  far  off.' 

"Very  far  off;  yet  not  so  far  as  Central  Africa. 
Perhaps,  as  you  are  reading,  Diana,  I  shall  be 
nearer  to  you  than  we  think;  nearer,  in  spirit, 
than  now  seems  possible.  So  do  not  let  this 
farewell  letter  bring  you  a  sense  of  loneliness,  my 
wife.  If  spirits  can  draw  near,  and  hover  round 
their  best  beloved,  mine  will  bend  over  you,  as 
you  read. 

"Does  it  startle  you,  that  I  should  caU  you 
this?  Be  brave,  dear  heart,  and  read  on;  because 
— as  I  shall  be  at  last  in  the  Land  from  whence 
there  is  no  return — I  am  going  to  tell  you  the 
whole  truth;  trusting  you  to  understand,  and  to 
forgive. 

"Oh,  my  wife,  my  belovtlsd!  I  have  loved  you 
from  the  very  first;  loved  you   with  my  whole 


4o6        The  Following  of  the  Star 

being;  as  any  man  who  loved  you,  would  be  bound 
to  love. 

"I  did  not  know  it,  myself,  imtil  after  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  do  as  you  wished  about  our 
marriage.  I  had  sat  up  all  night,  pondering  the 
problem;  and  at  dawn,  after  I  had  realised  that 
without  transgressing  against  the  Divine  Will  I 
coiild  marry  you,  I  suddenly  knew — in  one  re- 
vealing flash — that  I  loved  you,  my  beloved — I 
loved  you. 

"How  I  carried  the  thing  through,  without 
letting  it  be  more  than  you  wished,  I  scarcely 
know  now.  It  seems  to  me,  looking  back  upon 
those  days  from  this  great  solitude,  that  it  was 
a  task  beyond  the  strength  of  mortal  man. 

"And  it  was,  Diana.  But  not  beyond  the 
strength  of  my  love  for  you.  If,  as  you  look  back 
upon  our  wedding,  and  the  hours  which  followed, 
and — and  the  parting,  my  wife,  it  seems  to  you 
that  I  pulled  it  through  all  right,  gauge,  by  that, 
the  strength  of  my  love. 

"Oh,  that  evening  of  our  wedding-day!  May  I 
tell  you?  It  is  such  a  relief  to  be  able  to  teU  you, 
at  last.  It  cannot  harm  you  to  learn  how  deeply 
you  have  been  loved.  It  need  not  sadden  you, 
Diana ;  because  every  man  is  the  better  for  having 
given  his  best. 


Diana  Learns  the  Truth  407 

"The  longing  for  you,  during  those  first  hours, 
was  so  terrible.  I  went  down  to  my  cabin — you 
remember  that  jolly  big  cabin,  'with  the  compli- 
ments of  the  company' — but  your  violets  stood 
on  the  table,  everything  spoke  of  you;  yet  your 
sweet  presence  was  not  there;  and  each  revolution 
of  the  screw  widened  the  distance  between  us — 
the  distance  which  was  never  to  be  rccrossed. 

"I  tried  to  pray,  but  could  only  groan.  I  took 
off  my  coat;  but  when  I  turned  to  hang  it  up,  I 
saw  my  hat,  hanging  where  you  had  placed  it. 
I  slipped  on  my  coat  again.  I  could  not  stay  in 
this  fragrance  of  violets,  and  in  the  desperate 
sense   of   loneliness   they   caused. 

'T  mounted  to  the  hurricane  deck,  and  paced 
up  and  down,  up  and  down.  For  one  wild 
moment  I  thought  I  would  go  off,  when  the  pilot 
left;  hurry  back  to  you,  confess  all,  and  throw 
myself  on  your  mercy — my  wife,  my  wife! 

"Then  I  knew  I  could  never  be  such  a  hound 
as  to  do  that.  You  had  chosen  me,  because  you 
trusted  me.  You  had  wedded  me,  on  the  dis- 
tinct understanding  that  it  was  to  mean  nothing 
of  what  marriage  usually  means.  I  had  agreed 
to  this ;  therefore  you  were  the  one  woman  on  the 
face  of  God's  earth,  whom  I  was  bound  in  honour 
not  to  seek  to  win. 


4o8        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"Yet,  I  wanted  you,  my  wife;  and  the  hunger 
of  that  need  was  such  fierce  agony. 

"I  went  to  the  side  of  the  ship.  Beating  my 
clenched  fists  on  the  woodwork,  seemed  to  help 
a  little.     Then — I  looked  over. 

"We  were  surging  along  through  the  darkness. 
I  could  see  the  white  foam  on  the  waves,  far  down 
below. 

"Then — Diana,  dare  I  tell  you  all? — then  the 
black  waters  tempted  me.  I  was  alone  up  there. 
It  would  mean  only  one  headlong  plunge — then 
silence  and  oblivion.  God  forgive  me,  that  in 
the  agony  of  that  moment  of  Time,  I  forgot 
Eternity. 

"But,  lifting  my  eyes,  I  looked  away  from  those 
black  waters  to  where — clear  on  the  horizon — 
shone  a  star. 

"Somehow  that  star  brought  you  nearer.  It 
was  a  thing  you  might  be  seeing  also,  on  this,  our 
wedding-night.  I  stood  very  still  and  watched 
it,  and  it  seemed  to  speak  of  hope.  I  prayed 
to  be  forgiven  the  sin  of  having  harboured,  even 
for  a  moment,  that  black,  cowardly  tempta- 
tion. 

"Then,  all  at  once,  I  remembered  something. 
May  I  tell  you,  my  wife,  my  wife?  It  cannot 
harm  you,  after  I  am  dead,  that  I  should  tell 


Diana  Learns  the  Truth  409 

you.  I  remembered  that  you  had  laid  your  hand 
for  one  moment  on  the  pillow  in  my  bunk.  At 
once,  I  seemed  rich  beyond  compare.  Your 
hand — your  own  dear  hand! 

"I  ran  down  quickly,  and  in  five  minutes  I  was 
lying  in  the  dark,  the  scent  of  violets  all  about 
me,  and  my  head  where  your  dear  hand  had 
rested.     And  then — God  gave  me  sleep. 

"My  wife,  I  have  often  had  hard  times  since 
then;  but  never  so  bad  as  that  first  night.  And, 
though  I  have  longed  for  you  always,  I  would  not 
have  had  less  suffering;  because,  to  have  suffered 
less  would  have  been  to  have  loved  you  less;  and 
to  have  loved  you  less  would  have  been  unworthy 
of  you,  Diana; — of  you  and  of  myself. 

"But  what  an  outpouring!  And  I  meant  to 
write  entirely  of  bigger  and  more  vital  things,  in 
this  last  letter.  Yet  I  suppose  /  love  yoti  is  the 
most  vital  thing  of  all  to  me;  and,  when  it  came 
to  being  able  to  tell  you  fully,  I  felt  like  writing 
it  all  down,  exactly  as  it  happened.  I  think  you 
will  understand. 

"And  now  about  the  present. 

"I  can't  die,  miles  away  from  you!  Since 
death  has  been  coming  nearer,  a  grave  out  here 
seems  to  hold  such  a  horror  of  loneliness.     It 


410        The  Following  of  the  Star 

would  be  rest,  to  lie  beneath  the  ground  on  which 
your  dear  feet  tread.  Also,  I  am  possessed  by  a 
yearning  so  unutterable  to  see  your  face  once 
more,  that  I  doubt  if  I  can  die,  until  I  have 
seen  it. 

"So  I  am  coming  back  to  England,  by  the 
quickest  route;  and,  if  I  live  through  the  journey, 
I  shall  get  down  into  the  vicinity  of  Riverscourt 
somehow,  and  just  once  see  you  drive  by.  You 
will  not  see  me,  or  l<iiow  that  I  am  near;  so  I 
don't  break  our  compact,  Diana.  It  may  be  a 
sick  man's  fancy,  to  think  that  I  can  do  it;  yet  I 
believe  I  shall  pull  it  through.  So,  if  this  comes 
into  your  hands,  from  an  English  address,  you 
will  know  that,  most  likely,  before  I  died,  I  had 
my  heart's  desire — one  sight  of  your  sweet  face; 
and,  having  had  it,  I  died  content. 

"Ah,  what  a  difference  love — the  real  thing — 
makes  in  a  man's  life!  God  forgive  me,  I  can't 
think  or  write  of  my  work.  Everything  has  now 
slipped  away,  save  thoughts  of  you.  However, 
you  know  all  the  rest. 

"I  am  writing  to  ask  you  not  to  write  again, 
as  I  shall  be  coming  home — only  I  dare  n't  give 
you  that,  as  the  reason!  And  also  to  beg  of  you 
not  to  leave  England.  Think  what  it  would  be, 
if  I  reached  there,  only  to  find  you  gone! 


Diana  Learns  the  Truth  411 

"And  now  about  the  future,  my  beloved;  your 
future. 

"Oh,  that  picture!  You  know, — the  big  one? 
I  can't  put  on  paper  all  I  thought  about  it;  but — 
it  showed  me — I  knew  at  once — that  somehow, 
some  one  had  been  teaching  you — what  love 
means. 

"Diana,  don't  misunderstand  me!  I  trust  you 
always,  utterly.  But  we  both  made  a  horrible 
mistake.  Our  marriage  was  an  unnatural,  unlaw- 
ful thing.  It  is  no  fault  of  yours,  if  some  one — 
before  you  knew  what  was  happening — has  made 
you  care,  in  something  the  way  I  suddenly  found 
I  cared  for  you. 

"And  I  want  to  say,  that  this  possibilit}''  makes 
me  glad  to  leave  you  free — absolutely  free,  my 
wife. 

"You  must  always  remember  that  I  want  you 
to  have  the  best,  and  to  know  the  best.  And 
if  some  happy  man  who  loves  you  and  is  worthy 
can  win  you,  and  fill  your  dear  life  with  the 
golden  joy  of  loving — why,  God  knows,  I  would  n't 
be  such  a  dog  in  the  manger,  as  to  begrudge  you 
that  joy,  or  to  wish  to  stand  between. 

"So  don't  give  me  a  thought,  if  it  makes  you 
happier  to  forget  me.  Only — if  you  do  remember 
me  sometimes — remember  that  I  have  loved  you, 


412        The  Following  of  the  Star 

always,  from  the  very  first,  with  a  love  which 
would  have  gladly  Hved  for  you,  had  that  been 
possible;  but,  not  being  possible,  gladly  dies  for 
you,  that  you — at  last — may  have  the  best. 

"And  so,  good-bye,  my  wife. 
"Yours  ever, 

"David  Rivers." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 


GOOD-NIGHT,  DAVID 


WHEN  Diana  had  finished  reading  David's 
letter,  she  folded  it,  replaced  it  in  the  en- 
velope; rose,  laid  aside  her  uniform,  slipping  on 
a  grey  cashmere  wrapper,  with  soft  white  silk 
frills  at  neck  and  wrists. 

Then  she  passed  down  the  stone  corridor,  and 
quietly  entered  the  darkened  room  where  David 
was  lying. 

A  screen  was  drawn  partly  round  the  bed. 
A  nurse  sat,  silent  and  watchful,  her  eyes  upon 
the   pillow. 

She  rose,  as  Diana  entered,  and  came  forward 
quickly. 

"I  am  left  in  charge,  Mrs.  Rivers,"  she  whis- 
pered. "I  was  to  call  you  at  once  when  I  saw 
the  change.  The  doctors  have  been  gone  ten 
minutes.     Sir    Der\'ck   expects    to    return    in    an 

413 


414        The  Following  of  the  Star 

hour.  He  is  fetching  an  antitoxin  which  he 
proposes  trying,  if  the  patient  Hves  until  his 
return.  Dr.  Walters  thinks  it  useless  to  at- 
tempt anything  further.  No  more  strychnine 
is  to  be  used." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Diana,  gently.  "Now  you 
can  go  into  the  ward,  nurse.  I  will  take  charge 
here.  If  I  want  help,  I  will  call.  Close  the  door 
softly  behind  you.     I  wish  to  be  alone." 

She  stood  quite  still,  while  the  nurse,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  left  the  room. 

Then  she  came  round  to  the  right  side  of  the  bed, 
knelt  down,  and  drew  David  into  her  arms,  pil- 
lowing his  head  against  her  breast.  She  held 
him  close,  resting  her  cheek  upon  his  ttmibled 
hair,  and  waited. 

At  length  David  sighed,  and  stirred  feebly. 
Then  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"Where — am  I?"  he  asked,  in  a  bewildered 
voice. 

"In  your  wife's  arms,"  said  Diana,  slowly  and 
clearly. 

"In — my  wife's — arms?"  The  weak  voice, 
incredulous  in  its  amazed  wonder,  tore  her  heart; 
but  she  answered,   unfaltering: 

"Yes,  David.  In  your  wife's  arms.  Don't 
you  feel  them  round  you?     Don't  you  feel  her 


"Good-Night,  David"  415 

heart  beating  beneath  your  cheek?  You  were 
found  unconscious  in  the  train,  and  they  brought 
you  to  the  Hospital  of  the  Holy  Star,  where, 
thank  God,  I  chanced  to  be.  IVIy  darling,  can 
you  understand  what  I  am  saying?  Oh,  David, 
try  to  Usten!  Don't  go,  until  I  have  told  you. 
David — I  have  read  your  letter;  the  letter  you 
carried  in  your  breast-pocket.  But,  oh  darhng, 
it  has  been  the  same  with  me  as  with  you!  I 
have  loved  you  and  longed  for  3'ou  all  the  time. 
Ever  since  you  called  me  your  wife  on  the  boat, 
ever  since  our  wedding-evening,  I  have  loved  you, 
my  Boy,  my  darling — loved  you,  and  wanted  you. 
David,  can  you  understand?" 

"Loved — loved  me?''  he  said.  Then  he  lay 
quite  still,  as  if  striving  to  take  in  so  unbelievable 
a  thing.  Then  he  laughed — a  Httle  low  laugh, 
half  laugh,  half  sob — a  sound  unutterably  happy, 
yet  piteously  weak.  And,  lifting  his  wasted 
hand,  he  touched  her  lips;  then,  for  ver>'  weakness, 
let  it  fall  upon  her  breast. 

"Tell  me — again,"   whispered   David. 

She  told  him  again;  low  and  tenderly,  as  a 
mother  might  croon  to  her  sick  child,  Diana  told 
again  the  story  of  her  love;  and,  bending  over, 
she  saw  the  radiance  of  the  smile  upon  that 
dying  face.     She  knew  he  understood. 


41 6        The  Following  of  the  Star 

"Darling,  it  was  love  for  you  which  brought 
the  look  you  saw  in  the  photograph.  There  was 
no  other  man.     There  never  will  be,  David." 

"I  want  you — to  have — the  best,"  whispered 
David,  with  effort. 

"This  is  the  best,  my  dearest,  my  own,"  she 
answered,  firmly.  "To  hold  you  in  my  arms,  at 
last — at  last.  David,  David;  they  would  have 
been  hungry  always,  if  you  had  not  come  back. 
Now  they  will  try  to  be  content." 

"I  wish — "gasped  the  weak  voice,  "I  wish — 
I  need  not " 

"Thine  eyes  shall  see  the  King  in  His  beauty," 
said  Diana,  bravely. 

She  felt  the  responsive  thrill  in  him.  She 
knew  he  was  smiling  again. 

"Ah  yes,"  he  said.  "Yes.  In  the  Land  that 
is  very  far  off.     Not  so  far  as — as " 

"No,  darling.     Not  so  far  as  Central  Africa." 

"But — no — return,"  whispered  David. 

"Yet  always  near,  my  own,  if  I  keep  close  to 
Him.  You  will  be  in  His  presence;  and  He  will 
keep  me  close  to  Him.  So  we  cannot  be  far 
apart." 

He  put  up  his  hand  again,  and  touched  her 
lips.  She  kissed  the  cold  fingers  before  they 
dropped,  once  more,  to  her  breast. 


♦' Good-Night,  David  "  417 

"Has  our  love — helped?"  asked  David. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "It  brought  me  to  the  King. 
It  was  the  guiding  Star." 

"The  King  of  Love,"  murmured  David.  "The 
King  of  Love — my  Shepherd  is.  Can  you — say 
it?" 

Then,  controlling  her  voice  for  David's  sake, 
Diana  repeated,  softly: 


"The  King  of  Love,  my  Shepherd  is, 
Whose  goodness  faileth  never, 

I  nothing  lack,  if  I  am  His, 
And  He  is  mine  forever. 


"In  death's  dark  vale  I  fear  no  ill, 
With  Thee,  dear  Lord,  beside  me; 

Thy  rod  and  staff,  my  comfort  still. 
Thy  Cross  before,  to  guide  me. 

"And  so,  through  all  the  length  of  days, 

Thy    goodness    faileth    never; 
Good  Shepherd,  may  I  sing  Thy  praise. 

Within  Thy  house  forever." 

"Forever!"  said  David.  "Forever!  It  is  not 
death,  but  life — everlasting  life!  This  is  life 
eternal — to  loiow  Him." 

After  that  he  lay  very  still.  He  seemed  sinking 
37 


41 8        The  Following  of  the  Star 

gently  into  unconsciousness.  She  could  hardly 
hear  him  breathing. 

Suddenly  he  said:  "I  don't  know  what  it  is! 
It  seems  to  come  from  your  arms,  and  the  pillow 
— you  did  put  your  hand  on  the  pillow,  did  n't 
you,  Diana? — I  feel  so  rested;  and  I  feel  a  thing 
I  have  n't  felt  for  months.  I  feel  sleepy.  Am 
I  going  to  sleep?" 

"Yes,  darling,"  she  answered,  bravely.  "You 
are  going  to  sleep." 

"  Don't  let's  say  ' Good-bye,' "  whispered  David. 
"Let 's  say  'Good-night.'" 

For  a  moment  Diana  could  not  speak.  Her 
tears  fell  silently.  She  prayed  he  might  not  feel 
the  heaving  of  her  breast. 

Then  the  utter  tenderness  of  her  love  for  him 
came  to  the  rescue  of  her  breaking  heart, 

"Good-night,  David,"  said  Diana,  calmly. 

He  did  not  answer.  She  feared  her  response 
had  been  made  too  late. 

Her  arms  tightened  around  him. 

"Good  -  night  —  good  -  night,  my  Boy,  my 
own!" 

"Oh — good-night,  my  wife,"  said  David.  "I 
thought  I  was  slipping  down  into  the  long  grasses 
in  the  jungle.  They  ought  to  cut  them.  I  wish 
you  could  see  my  oleanders." 


"Good-Night,  David"  419 

Then  he  turned  in  her  arms,  moving  his  head 
restlessly  to  and  fro  against  her  breast,  like  a  very 
tired  Uttle  child  seeking  the  softest  place  on  its 
pillow;  then  settled  down,  with  a  sigh  of  complete 
content. 

Thus  David  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  BUNDLE  OF  MYRRH 

*''\F  he  sleep,  he  shall   do  well,'"   quoted  the 

*■  doctor,  quietly.  "Nothing  but  this  could 
give  him  a  chance  of  pulling  through. " 

Diana  looked  up,  dazed. 

Sir  Deryck  was  bending  over  her,  scrutinizing 
closely,  in  the  dim  light,  the  quiet  face  upon  her 
breast. 

"Is  he  alive?"  she  whispered. 

The  doctor's  fingers  had  found  David's  pulse. 

"Alive?  Why,  yes,"  he  said;  "and  better  than 
merely  alive.  He  has  fallen  into  a  natural  sleep. 
His  pulse  is  steadying  and  strengthening  every 
moment.  If  he  can  but  sleep  on  like  this  for  a 
couple  of  hours,  we  shall  be  able  to  give  him  nour- 
ishment when  he  wakes.  Don't  move!  I  can 
do  what  has  to  be  done,  without  disturbing  him. 
...  So !  that  will  do.  Now  tell  me.  Can  you 
remain  as  you  are  for  another  hour  or  two?" 

"All  night,  if  necessary,"  she  whispered. 
420 


The  Bundle  of  Myrrh  421 

"Good!  Then  I  will  place  a  chair  behind  the 
screen,  and  either  a  nurse,  or  Walters,  or  myself 
will  be  there,  without  fail;  so  that  you  can  call 
softly,  if  you  need  help  or  relief." 

He  bent,  and  looked  again  closely  at  the  sleeping 
face. 

"Poor  boy,"  he  whispered,  gently.  "It  seems 
to  me  he  has,  in  God's  providence,  reached,  just 
in  time,  the  only  thing  that  could  save  him.  Keep 
up  heart,  Airs.  Rivers.  Remember  that  every 
moment  of  contact  with  your  vital  force  is  vital- 
izing him.  It  is  like  pouring  blood  into  empty 
veins ;  only  a  more  subtle  and  mysterious  process, 
and  more  wonderful  in  its  results.  Let  your  mus- 
cles relax,  as  much  as  possible.  We  can  prop  you 
with  pillows,  presently." 

The  doctor  went  softly  out. 

"All  night,  if  necessar\',"  repeated  Diana's 
happy  heart,  in  an  ecstasy  of  hope  and  thankful- 
ness. "A  bundle  of  myrrh  is  my  well-beloved 
unto  me;  he  shall  lie  all  night — all  night —  Oh, 
God,  send  me  strength  to  kneel  on,  and  hold 
him!" 

She  could  feel  the  intense  hfe  and  love  which 
filled  her,  enveloping  him,  in  his  deathly  weakness. 
She  bent  her  whole  mind  upon  imparting  to  him 
the  outflow  of  her  vitality. 


422        The  Following  of  the  Star 

The  room  was  very  still. 

Distant  clocks  struck  the  hour  of  midnight. 

It  was  Christmas-day! 

From  an  old  church,  just  behind  the  hospital, 
where  a  midnight  carol  service  was  being  held,  came 
the  sound  of  an  organ,  in  deep  tones  of  rolling  har- 
mony. Then,  softened  by  intervening  windows  into 
the  semblance  of  angelic  music,  rose  the  voices 
of  the  choristers,  in  the  great  Christmas  hymn: 

"  Hark,  the  herald  angels  sing, 
Glory  to  the  new-born  King!  " 

And  kneeling  there,  in  those  first  moments  of 
Christmas  morning;  kneeling  in  deepest  reverence 
of  praise  and  adoration,  Diana's  womanhood 
awoke,  at  last,  in  full  perfection. 

"  Glory  to  the  new-bom  King," 

the  helpless  Babe  of  Bethlehem,  pillowed  upon 
a  maiden's  gentle  breast,  clasped  in  a  virgin 
mother's  arms;  the  Babe  Whose  advent  should 
hallow  the  birth  of  mortal  infants,  for  all  time; 

"  Born  to  raise  the  sons  of  earth; 
Born  to  give  them  second  birth." 

Diana  hardly  knew,  as  she  knelt  on,  listening  to 


The  Bundle  of  Myrrh  423 

the  quiet  breathing  at  her  bosom,  whether  the 
rapture  which  enfolded  her  was  mostly  mother- 
love,  or  wifely  tenderness. 

But  she  knew  that  her  heart  beat  in  unison  with 
the  heart  of  the  Virgin  Mother  in  Bethlehem's 
starlit  stable. 

She  had  seen,  in  one  revealing  ray  of  eternal 
light,  the  true  vocation  of  her  womanhood. 

And  again  the  organ  pealed  forth  triumphant 
chords;  while  the  voices  of  the  distant  choir 
carolled : 

"  Hark,  the  herald  angels  sing, 
Glor>'  to  the  new-born  King." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

HOME,    BY  ANOTHER    WAY 

pACH  Feast  of  Epiphany,  Mr.  Goldsworthy 
■*— '  makes  a  point  of  asking  David  to  preach  the 
Epiphany  sermon  in  Brambledene  Chtirch. 

The  offertory,  on  these  occasions,  is  always 
devoted  to  the  work  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Star,  in  Ugonduma.  The  offertory  is  always  the 
largest  in  the  whole  year ;  but  that  may  possibly  be 
accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  Diana  invariably 
puts  a  sovereign  into  the  plate.  David  smiles  as 
he  sees  it  lying  on  the  vestry  table.  It  calls  up 
many  memories.  He  knows  it  was  dropped  into 
the  plate  by  the  hand  which  has  given  thousands 
to  the  work  in  Central  Africa.  He  wears  on  his 
watch-chain,  the  golden  coin  which,  on  that 
Christmas-eve  so  long  ago,  was  Diana's  first 
offering  to  his  work  in  Ugonduma. 

When  David  mounts  the  pulpit  stairs,  and  ap- 
pears behind  the  red  velvet  cushion,  he  looks 
down  upon  his  wife,  sitting  in  the  corner  near  the 
stout  whitewashed  pillar,  its  shape  accentuated, 

424 


Home,  by  Another  Way  425 

as  Is  the  annual  custom,  by  heavy  wreathings  of 
evergreens. 

She  has  become  his  Lady  of  Mysteiy  once  more; 
for  the  love  of  a  noble-hearted  woman  is  a  perpet- 
ual cause  of  wonderment  to  the  man  upon  whom  its 
richness  is  outpoiu"ed;  nor  does  he  ever  cease  to 
marvel,  in  his  secret  heart,  that  he  should  be  the 
object  upon  which  such  an  abandonment  of 
tenderness  is  lavished. 

And  before  the  second  Epiphany  came  round, 
that  most  wonderful  of  all  moments  in  a  man's 
life  had  come  to  David: — the  moment  when  he 
first  sees  a  small  replica  of  himself,  held  tenderly 
in  the  arms  of  the  woman  he  loves ;  when  the  spirit 
of  a  man  new-bom,  looks  out  at  him  from  baby 
eyes;  when  he  shares  his  wife's  love  with  another; 
yet  loves  to  share  it. 

Thus,  more  than  ever,  on  that  occasion,  was 
the  gracious  woman,  wTapped  in  soft  furs,  seated 
beside  the  old  stone  pillar,  his  Lady  of  Mystery. 
Yet,  as  she  Hfted  her  sweet  eyes  to  his,  expectant, 
they  were  the  faithful,  comprehending  eyes  of 
his  wife,  Diana;  and  they  seemed  to  say:  "I  am 
waiting.     I  have  come  for  this." 

Instantly  the  sense  of  inspiration  filled  him. 
With  glad  assurance,  he  gave  out  his  text,  and  read 
the  passage;  conscious,  as  he  read  it,  that  he  knew 


426        The  Following  of  the  Star 

more  of  its  full  meaning  than  he  had  known  when 
he  preached  upon  it  from  that  pulpit,  four  j^ears 
before : 

"When  they  saw  the  star,  they  rejoiced  with 
exceeding  great  joy.  .  .  .  And  when  they  had 
opened  their  treasures,  they  presented  unto  Him 
gifts — gold,  and  frankincense,  and  myrrh." 


Diana,  in  her  motor,  awaited  David,  outside 
the  old  lich-gate. 

As  he  sprang  in  beside  her,  and  the  car  glided 
off  swiftly  over  the  snow,  she  turned  to  him,  her 
grey  eyes  soft  with  tender  memories. 

"And  when  they  had  offered  their  gifts,  David," 
she  said;  "when  the  gold,  and  the  frankincense, 
and  the  myrrh  had  each  been  accepted — what 
then?" 

"What  then  ?"  he  answered,  as  his  hand  found 
hers  upon  her  muff,  while  into  his  face  came  the 
look  of  complete  content  she  so  loved  to  see; 
"Why  then — they  went  home,  by  another  way." 

Here  endeth  myrrh. 


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